Party Foul

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Everything in its proper place –
face down in memory,
memorizing split ends,
rendered a mess
by the mist in my veins.

All goddamn day it rains
and it rains and it rains.
False ideas crane their necks,
entranced by the sob
of dissonant hills.

Only the mirror fills the eye.
Wide screen panorama.
Paranoia in filtered light,
white with the stench
of the waste treatment plant.

All my ranting and raving
can’t save me from disinterested stares
shooting up from the water spout.
I have to chew my way out
of another unwieldy appetite

despite my advantages.
Transience holds the key,
the key to the cortex.
Up next is another
unwilling participant.

Should my preemptive strike
prove forgettable,
then forget me as well.
There’s fresh hell for me,
and virtue, and relevance.

-r. miller

Bone Ash

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I found it
disturbing at first.
The idea of someone’s fine
china being scraped by forks and knives,
being used for sustenance. There is no evidence
that we are composed of other beings—that we are
eating to stay alive. We use the bones and the fat
and the carbon and we leave no graveyards. We
are at the mercy of curtains—hiding behind human
skin. And then I think of the bones placed in my body.
The cadaver—I wish I knew whose bones keep my
spine standing. I wish I know when I lie down to sleep
whose bones are structuring the dreams,
giving shape
to my reality.


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The point, above all
is to be out, to remember
which side of the word
to put the ,comma to thank God
that there’s a dependent clause
on this page and I must continue
on the next, or else I’d lose this
track, crash, forget-

because yeah,
I felt this coming
but I didn’t think I’d see it,

all his sucking need
a ballast of fallen avarice
the shrapnel of his silence
cutting up the couch pillows
or sticking from the carpet

and we’re not getting
our deposit back
because for Christ’s sake,
we got blood
all over the tile
and bleach didn’t do the trick.

No, I didn’t expect
to see him,
enormous and brooding
face down again
and I have run
out of the magnanimity

to place the black
sluice of pause
to piece together
the scurried phrase

to pry him off the bed,
try and roll him over.


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for Jent Garrison


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Hand grazing at your chest
It rocks forward and back
Pendulum of a clock

Sweat blooms out of skin
Pores, rain
Descending from clouds

Thighs rise to the air
Aligned to the horizon, hiding
A sun in between

Body shakes, toes shiver
A penetrated Earth, growing
Trees out of rapture



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i am the
dried up sponge
under the
grease-stained pan
at the bottom of your

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