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We are getting stranger each minute.

My body is minutely
like a stranger

infected with some alien, incorporeal strain.

Rats in a maze of cages
chewing the maize they’ve been given

in a deliberate way.

Unaware they’ve been sedated
by the harmless
charm of indecision.

Rage against these malevolent cogs.

Rage against the clock face bearing

the bones of Sisyphus 
in a stranglehold.

Burn away this twisting
of apathy.

If I’m wrong, 
then loudly and strong,
members of the universe’s jury

prove to me
my sanity,

bathe me in an idolater’s perspective.

Life didn’t erect a force field to
shield me,

I’m just here for the ride along,

standing out in the throng
like a sweater vest in a Jay-Z

I will fight
unlike Daniel in his sacrificial den;

so I say we let bygones
be pythons
and infect our veins
with the
desperation of dying men.

Willie Watt

Mr. and Mrs. Cleverest Motherfucker on Earth


On slow days,
in a lonely haze,
sometimes I’ll think back
to my college writing class,
the girl in the purple-framed glasses.
It wasn’t just her perfect ass,
I fell fast for
her sarcastic sass,
and eloquent mastery
of words and wit,
a lit genius
with gorgeous lips.

And my mind exploded
with thoughts of her and me
atop a pile of
dropouts and druggies,
slow-dancing on the desks
of the cheering and clapping
cavemen with envious faces
looking on from below.

One night,
we had to write
a persona poem,
occupy the mind
of famous figure,
and determined
to impress her
I devoured her work,
about a man dying
alone in an
apartment in Basel.
The clues were all there,
and I didn’t dare look
dumb in front of this
gorgeous girl,
so I googled the clues,
and let Wikipedia
come to the rescue.

The next day she read
her silky stanzas,
and when the teacher asked
if anyone knew who
the words depicted
as predicted,
the esoteric reference,
sailed over the mortals’ heads,
so I piped up and said,
cool as Canadian winter,
“It’s about that Nietzsche guy, right?”

Her smile said it all,
she ate it up,
and the preacher
pronounced us,
Mr. and Mrs.
Cleverest Motherfucker on Earth.

After class,
I caught up to her
crossing the courtyard,
and she told me about
the lovely weekend she had
with her boyfriend.

Before she left me to drown,
I called after her,
“It was nice meeting you,
Mrs. Some Other Guy,
I’m Mr. Dumbest Motherfucker on Earth.”

Training: Part 2


Playing back into safety
never truly reaching change
because a part of me never truly wanted it all

to go
to shift
so much for me to start over

to see that there was something better
than what I have accepted

from the time we were together
to the longer aftermath
of everything that has happened
I still feel that we could have been great

or okay
or fearless
or prideful

or something more
than we are now
but instead we are both stuck

in the ditches of our mistakes
hoping for the best
but knowing nothing will come because we are used to the pain

the missteps that our daily routines have become
we are tangled in this glue
wishing that we weren’t
but never truly moving
because we got comfortable

laying in our coffins
waiting for another
to come
and pour more dirt
on our lifeless bodies

In a Nutshell

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I’m chewing my nails all the way down. They refuse to grow anyways.
Too much whiskey last night or maybe not enough.
There’s only seven minutes left before I have to be out of that front door, on campus
printing. Three of those minutes I need to edit this theory paper
that’s only 3 out of the 6 required pages. Fuck it,
spell check, quick scan, alright done. Two of those minutes
I’m scrubbing my teeth while questioning the purpose of unscented
deodorant as I put it on under my arms.
Who bought this?
Now I only have one minute to kiss the sleeping man in
my bed, uhm, maybe two. He pays the bills.
I’m out the door, wishing I didn’t put on flip flops
that can snap at any second. I’m halfway to campus and I realize
I didn’t send the essay to my email. Here we go. Full sprint all the way back home.
Alright, sent the document and I need to change shoes.
I think I’ll do the Uggs. They’re nice and warm. Perfect.
I’m back out the front door. I can’t run as fast, my boots are too heavy and
I’m not wearing a bra. Surely people can tell through this
thin sweater. I keep running anyways because
goddammit I am not staying in this infested valley with
all these people lowering their consciousness level
conversing about Kim K’s greasy ass and believing that
the police are here to protect and serve, not a semester longer!
I refuse!
It will not be the death of me!
So here I am, printing, digging for change in
my backpack. 44 cent, some shake, and a Slim Jim wrapper.
The change is on the counter, my paper in hand, with fourteen seconds left to spare.
O’ theory, O’ theory, it will be the death of me. I know it will.
I squeeze through the desks, reaching to hand the professor my paper,
with a smile, satisfied that I didn’t give up
or let my unrestrained breast stop me.
He looks at me now with my thin sweater and damp forehead.
“Next Thursday for this. Today…midterm”.
Now finally I am aware of the nervous chatter of the class and the green books.
O’ silly girl O’ silly girl.
I’ll be the death of me.


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We refused to settle for the crumpled
paper heap of land we had been given,
and so set forth for ampler tracts.
Our backs, though hunched
from years of burden, were stronger
than the situation. We resolved
to march across the ravages
and leave a nation in our wake.
As there was little at stake,
this was a luxury we could afford,
and afford it we did
with our varying degrees of wealth.
We were healthy then, and possessed
of a vigor that grows from arrogance
and blossoms into soul-rending fury,
an uncompromising, all-or-nothing
mentality that sends weaker spirits
sprinting for anywhere else.
Monuments, ancient, were crushed
like seashells beneath our feet
as we beat along the withered land,
scanning with feverish gaze
for a place to lay down roots.
Our faces had grown hard
from the winds. Shards of parent culture
clung to our skin. We hung our heads
collectively as we inched further
from our point-of-origin,
closer to dejection. Each section
of our ranks seemed overwhelmed
from wandering so long,
but I held strong my belief
that we’d find oasis soon.
Some began to swoon from the heat.
Others achieved acute states of delirium.
Fate condensed our numbers,
but not our desire, our dire hope
that one day we’d be free from even destiny.

-r. miller



You think I have nothing to say
You see there is too much
And I can’t find the words

Or I have too many
Or they wouldn’t make sense
Or I’d think it’s too overwhelming

I’d get caught up
Explain every detail and you’d be bored

You’d leave and find someone else
Less full of thoughts and stories
Someone less complicated

It’s too much
To describe everything I want you to know

Every thought that occupies my brain I want you to hear
All the happiness and weird things that went on in my day
That go on in life

The random
The funny
The stupid that make me question everything in this crazy town

But I stop myself
I don’t want you to back away
You’d put oceans between my stories
There would be a reason for your silence

I want you to hear everything
But I’ll stop myself
So you will stay

You, With The Grim Expression.

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I see so many people wearing sunglasses. Like they’re afraid of making a lasting

Like they’re shielding their souls
from the sight of those
whose eyes would misdirect
their intentions.

Undeserving gaze.
Unnerving display of repressed camaraderie.

How do I feel so alone
with so many of you around me?

Pound me into dust,

lust and longing
artificial awning
the gnawing street sign
keeping us apart.

I must find a way
to partake
of this beautiful
parlor with you.

Why is your essence
so silent?

Can’t you see I’m ultraviolet,

a pulsing hieroglyph
in the spire of malleable
surrounding our mutual pathways?

I’m here for myself,
but there’s no contradiction in
hoping your cigarette flick
nervous tick
the hopeful heart you’ve bribed the mouth of time with
can ease the
pressure of my
solitary confinement.

My mind is both a receding waterline
and a door to greater oceans.

Open, open cruel world;

peel back your oyster of
bolstered misery.

Let me see your pearl.

Willie Watt


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