Middle America

I bit that wall o’soap hard.
Other allegations flowed neatly, serenely,
from the guava-shaped opening
in the middle of the road.

Middle America sputtered.
They can’t dance to save their lives,
or anyone’s for that matter.
All they ever do is chew paint
and look sad while doing it, mumbling
dipshit prayers to bottom-feeding angels
who eye them hungrily.

Now, imagine finding yourself
on the wrong side of their good graces,
and you’ll understand the kinda shit I was in.

They came with dried grass
sticking out their gums, humming
like a turbine in need of repair.
I clenched my fists until they burst,
spilling sweetly nectar o’er the ground.
Then, I dropped the beat.

-r. miller

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