10.18.19

The voices in the street
pick the meat from my skull, kind of,
and fog rolls in like a carpet.
Maybe keep me off my pedestal next time.
Sure enough, next time presses
on my belly until it assumes the form
of frenzied nausea, proceeding
to force-feed me thoughts
wrapped in other thoughts
wrapped in other nausea.
Consider this an anthropological account
of how my body sometimes blunders.
The facts are stacked against me,
imposing though impotent,
anesthetized collossi drooling.
So much for the ruling caste.
I have to play fast-and-loose
by choice.

-r. miller

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