Time for a new dismembering,
a new regime, but only in theory.
The gloss gets under your skin
after a while, stays there and boils there,
roils up the circuitry and ultimately
drives you to lesser extremes.
It’s all part of the fun,
according to the sages whose wisdom
thusfar has amounted only to
a few broken bones and stanzas.
As the sun pulls its light westward,
I see only the great disapproval
and the sum of every wet dream
readying to bring the roof down,
to bury me in splinters
and possibly have a good laugh
at my expense. The performance reviews
are in: nothing you say you are
can be proved or disproved
and your craven hands can only shape
diminishing returns. Sick burn, ace.
Now strike me from the record.

-r. miller

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