This is the pulse of planets,
and you can feel it for real,
if you’re really inclined.
There we are on someone’s front porch.
We’re pining for flowers of something,
can’t say what, but we feel it for real.
And then, peals of unrestrained energy,
but only briefly. I drain the bottle,
then piss on a shrub. I bubble coolly
and thoughtfully, inventing
introspection. Smoke of some stuff
rubbing elbows with the mist
around the sidewalk. And I can’t decide
if I want to talk or sew my lips
to someone else’s. Someone else’s
heart beating into limp air.
Free range laughter.
Not caring anyway.
-r. miller
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