You don’t understand; I don’t have
these pictures in my head, can’t have
them even. Abandoning vacation mode,
we have the appearance of jet streams
against a soft red sky, and the bills come
one by one to be collected, off
again seeking the next fucking letdown,
the pen low on ink, evidence
in tatters by the incandescent roundhouse.
I like the look of lacking
through the melted glass of private lives,
stitching together a vast theory of everything.
You weren’t supposed to see
what it is you’re seeing, even glimpsing,
at this merry moment of reply, and me
as haggard and horrid as ever, wearing
the feeling in my cheek the feeling of you
bubbling cool and classy as you whisper
to me through the crescendo of afternoon,
clapping me real good with temptation.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 