Money Grubbin’

I read “insulted”
instead of “insulated.”
Lustily, the scrappers
scrape the tablelands
with their hands of ash
and accidents.
Last block blinking blue.

A shoehorn matters not.
Tradition dictates
that we take one suitor
by the testes and brand him
with a casual burn.
Our life is turnstiles.

The miles are melodic.

Episodic exploitation.
Cauterized calligraphy.
We turn to torch our vanity and in turn,
our vanity valorizes our vultures.
You should know by now
that culture is a crypt.

-r. miller

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