Off with permanence.
Adrift and tense,
you face a starless sky.
Place names and people
you loved who died
fix you in a trance.
No one dances the way they used to.
Bruised up loosely lipped
you slip out of someone else’s skin
and take in the six
new versions of a syntax only
you can know. It’s over
before blows. No show
left with no expense.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 