Up Until Dawn

My first rectitude
was a blanched angle righted
in its limitations.
This was one of a series that,
crass as it was,
confirmed my suspicions
about the carpets,
and I left a few sprinkles of glass.
You know, to mark my territory.
The fucking warpath
was a liter of blood
blossoming from the warmonger’s nose.
Something in the something or other
slammed a cramp in my nuts,
forever dispelling any dream
I had of dumpster diving.
I swore then
I’d never chug Red Bull again.
This sort of oath
is the sort
that buzzes over your head
until you’re sick of hearing it,
and there isn’t much you can do
except try to forget that it’s even there.
Transcendence was somewhere
between the swirling
and the general feeling of discontent.
Then the radio static
clamping down like a siege,
as if to impress its seal
into the smoke.
A wrinkle in the cheek.
It was automatic,
implicit,
an intangible reaction
to tangible chatter
raining like songs through a casket,
and there was a scheme of red
waving from my headache.
A reflection of thought,
some might say,
but what it was
that I recognized
was that, more often,
the real crux of a thought
resides in its hash tags.

-r. miller

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