Party Foul

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

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