Some call it a turn on, others
call it psychosis. Some find that prose
can be quite limiting. I’ve had it
with the sublimity of progress.
My stories were never interesting,
possessing a plot the way a lover
possesses the beloved.
Then something happened
on the way to the ticket office –
species memory seized and hugged the ground.
Effigies of all sorts lined the highway
outside of town, while the overzealous fucks
that people such places came
bearing bundles of burning thread,
the schemes of a shortchanged god
glimmering behind their angry eyes.
Well, that’s how it seemed at any rate.
All I wanted to do was take in a flick,
can you believe that?
Rewind to the present tense.
Here I am in the empty shopping mall
of my deepest fears, which unfortunately
are also my deepest longings.
Imagine that kind of dissonance for a minute.
You can only do it for a minute
before the tightly coiled wire
of your Reason begins to stretch
beyond its utility. You can only do it
for a minute and a minute is just too much,
cold to the touch, but who can refuse
such a fine figure? Such distractions
always get the better of me, moving
about the inner void in enticing arabesques.
Just look at the trails they leave…

-r. miller

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