These tired emblems of history
move the land to tears.
The town and the country,
with all their swollen pathos,
and people in somber clothes,
who trudge clumsily up streets.
What I am greets the spectacle
with a handshake and several blisters
meant as metaphors. Lazily,
the smell of camphor climbs halfway
to the startled clouds. An alarm
is sounded, but why? Perhaps
to mobilize this despondent vignette,
inject a bit of color where color is wanting.
But what if the colors
are too intense in their character
and the scene, in its entirety,
collapses beneath the swarm?
Warm weather wouldn’t save us
ever again, maybe. This I could forgive.
I’ve been living here so long
that nothing amuses me anymore.
At least I have my electric teeth
and bad examples to keep me occupied.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 