We’re in the thickness again.
Quickness of pulse is an inauspicious sign.
At a certain point, a line must be drawn,
a limit must be established.
You go fishing for compliments
but end up only with blank checks
and the overwhelming sense
that you aren’t as prophetic as your words suggest.
It’s almost as if nothing interests me
like it used to, but what is one to do
when one’s hands are tied up
with passing glances?
We’ve knowledge of ancient dances,
after all. Fertility rites and macho posturing.
The phone rings – it’s a secret friend
from forever ago, who only wants to know
what’s going on in the hemisphere these days.
What’s the latest toy craze?
Is chloroform still accepted
as a way to get your point across?
Well, I’m at a loss for everything.
No more songs in the shower,
no more wilting flowers in the slender vase
of my heart’s content.
The fall is heaven sent with a
heavy scent, and the rent is overdue.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 