and I’m standing on the knife-edge of a drunken populace, and I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to be my friends, or the friends of friends, or I’m supposed to greet them with a smile and welcome them to the alcoholic bohemian reverie – it is my house, after all – but she shows up fashionably late, dressed in black, blending with the crowd, congealing with the monolithic mass of swaying/drinking/sweating bodies, mingling with all these other girls I used to fuck, and she acts like she’s only there for the cheap vodka and the thrill of violating the local fire code.

and there’s an entire bottle of blue hairspray in my follicles, and I’m drifting through the comic book characters and vampires and political archetypes and obscure pop culture references, and there’s a drink in my hand and debilitating nausea in my stomach, and it isn’t because of the triple-distilled whiskey, but because I’m crystal-sure tonight will be another puzzle piece stolen from the cardboard box of sanity, and playing the dangerous hand of authenticity would redact any possibility of grabbing branches in the postmodern turbulence and dragging myself into the watering hole of sincerity, where her revolver-shaped flawless smile doesn’t feel like a bullet to the chest delivered at twenty-four frames per second.

and she’s only been here a few hours, and we’ve barely interacted, and she’s leaving now arm-in-arm with the group she came in with, and I foolishly tied my high to the idea of cracking her code, because even after the sex and the long hikes and the conversations that felt like they meant something I still have no idea how to establish any kind of permanent connection, anything utterly perfect in its imperfection, like it could/should/probably-never-will-be.

and I’ve got her against the wall now, and I can’t remember ever kissing someone like this before, and I hate myself for the unwanted/unwarranted passion, after all the months fortifying defenses specifically for a moment like this, and it all did nothing in the end, and I hate her for kissing me back just as hard, and I hate her for the subtle moan that lights a kaleidoscope under my synapses, and I hate the way her hip curves to the pressure of being thrown against the alabaster and the way she loves it, and I hate her for leaving, clothes on, without a care in the world, after the moment subsides, and I hate her for the tight black dress, the round brown eyes, the way she fucking obliterates every part of me that thought I was past this shit.

Willie Watt


genre is capitalism, you said.
i agreed but didn’t care enough to nod.
i think i found your voice under a park bench.
it’s not that i’m tired, it’s that i’m hungry.
i can’t focus/long enough/to reach you.
there are things we share/with/out
flinching. i want to tell you everything
but i’ve already lost/interest.


So this tender steam…
Heat for the halo.
Dayglo picnic on the fringes of faith.
It is the word that sayeth only itself,
a word that drips crimson
on an azure plate.
We reach greatness at dusk
with our hands down our pants.
There’s music and dancing
in the unsavory part of town.
It is the word that spilleth
like a debutante
tripping over her gown.
We done blown a fuse,
(and the muses aren’t that impressed)
dressed to the nines
with rhinestones and gold buckles
affixed to our mouths.
And the growth that matters –
but it’s more than mere growth.

-r. miller

Dirty habits

“The passenger-side door is broken,” I tell him,
his hand grasping at the jag of torn plastic,
so I lean in from the inside, push the handle hard
and he slides in beside, leans on the tattered armrest
sings along to the white scramble of radio sound.

These simple things. Tender domesticities
that make your bare toes curl under, a coffee pot
next to the chipped sugar tin, clean blue towels
folded in the broken cabinet. I don’t need to paint
pictures of the rooms you live in, but picture this:

Him pondering the paper scraps scattered on your desk,
puzzling out the sweep and curl of your ink-stained hands.
A skeleton in the closet that strides out when he’s dressed
in his jeans and dirty chucks, kisses your cheek in plain daylight
Bob Dylan on the record player, spaghetti wilting on the stove.

You see the kind of daydreams I stash in the glove compartment
stuffed under the insurance card and pack of Camels, sweet
nothings I hum to the empty passenger seat. Like you-and-me
is something illicit, a dirty fix that’ll lock you up from the inside.


i see     what it takes    to be  wanted

carbon                                                 dated

creased                                           skin

i see

yesterday’s                               anthem


sirens               (silenced)             by light


for m.

there is space between us. a universe between your hand and my skin. 

there is a bent spine/connecting/    f e e l i n g

(lost signals finding/their pain.)

                               x + y = are-you-awake?

                    losing you to the mad/ness

please help me find my way/


heaven is a salesman
knock knock

			w h o s e  
radiant sadness