At the Filling Station

Disorder calculated
signs of symmetry and value
collapsing
on indignant plains

while craning my neck
the light
from the ceiling
slinks down my throat
and starts fucking around
with my organs

originating
from Germanic tribes

trickles of breath

hold open the goddamn door
for once

overture future’s wading
in a shallow pool
of callous notions
and disgust
with the whole of humanity

a human thing
an all – too – human – thing
an all too human
or all too thing

cobblestoned lock

clock the bastard
in his bastard face
and tear his bastard lips
away so that he’ll never – smile – again

pollen beds – thinking
of sex thinking
of wanting to be
out of this rut

-r. miller

Untitled

I hate everything which
is coming from my head.
Nothing is connecting
the way that I want it to.
What’s happening to me?
I’ve been off all week.
Nothing is connecting.
Everything is disordered.
I can’t seem to get a firm grasp
on my ideas. I just want to
lay down somewhere
and sleep until I’ve come up
with something worth
putting into words.

-r. miller