Generational Snafu

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Maelstrom or maudlin,

or maybe a wrong conjunction;
(but I guess grammar only exists to serve a function).

Punctual pacificity
nurturing proclivities

towards repression.

Successive messes 
and caged in internal dissonance.

Brazen indifference
branded on arms
with postmodern passions.

Entrapment designed,
but only partially made;

so over-caffeinate my
delusions of grandeur.

We’re just smart enough to recognize the problem,
and just dumb enough
to drown them 
low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie, gmo-free, soy milk


Willie Watt


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Cityscapes Web2

Design for the new Anthology, Cityscapes. Coming soon to an internet near you!



the truth comes on slow
lying in the gutters of
self-destruction. sitting
shotgun while speeding
through the highway of
hope. the road is a longwinded
apology. home is an avenue –
safety and comfort collide
like meteors into your
heavy chest – bruised
steady heart, beating like
drops of rain on the
dry concrete.


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It was the light cast by the feeble stars that finally did me in – I threw up my hands, having already thrown up my errors in judgment, and made a wonderful attempt to shout something profound and luscious with meaning at all those weak-wristed lights, but all that I was able to belch was

“… the literal fuck?”

Luckily, I’ve been able to focus all of that rage inward, but at what cost? What cost? These days, my perception of things is an abandoned house in the country, fallen completely to disrepair, as you can see by the way the shutters have rotted from their hinges,

and whatever glass there is
is broken glass,

and the peeled strips of paint like overgrown fingernails.

The interior is just an abominable tableau of trash and damaged furniture. But there’s the underlying sense that yes, this place once made a rather comfortable living space for some family of four in another time, and your imagination pulses with all kinds of halcyon scenes;

brother and sister
in the backyard,
playing games they’ve invented
only for themselves,

while mother
and father
watch from the porch,
mother resting her head
on father’s shoulder
as the warm twilight
slowly coaxes her to sleep,
her hand in father’s
much larger hand.

He turns his head,
buries his nose in her
floral scented hair,
and kisses her
on the crown.

These scenes, juxtaposed with the present state of affairs erupt in a single question: What the fuck exactly happened? And of course, you’re too horrified to speculate.

-r. miller

Start a Poetry Channel?


Here is holden lyric attempting to start a poetry channel and also reading “the art of being breathless” (exchanging one ramble for another).

Anyone down?

Terrible Escapes


Drawn to the periphery
You can never go back
You’ve experienced something that has flooded your world
Your perception is gone
You come back to your life and everything’s different
Nothing seems to be important
There’s no meaning because when you lie your head down at night you’re back there
To that place, that moment
The periphery
This has become your life
Everything else is just an escape that you don’t want to be in
You never wanted to be safe again
You thrive on this other life
But tragically you are given the escape
You have made my escape tolerable
What have I done for yours?

Keep Running


I’ve jogged the distance. I’ve ran the mile. I’ve uncovered the dark lingering figure in the corner and it still refuses to reveal itself

I’ve travelled the empty road and found nothing. I see nothing. I know nothing. But what I feel is life’s baggage of garbage; it follows me digging its fucking ivory nails into the back of my ankles, creeping up and seizing my calves, hanging on

I tend to echo insanity–I’m aware–but it mocks me with laughter that is twistedly alluring that I run faster. I keep going. Have I sold my soul? Have I saved it ? The world tells me to be calm, to keep pushing, and to enjoy the extraordinary events because it will make me stronger

It’s just life

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