Each Grueling Day

The sense is foreign to us.
Psychic tremors resonating
from distant history.

Continually, we circulate
through the mystery
imposed upon us,

boredom stamped
to our faces.
Oh what places!

Oh what clean lines of dialogue!
Ahead, the fog is assuming
the properties of one on the verge

of a nervous breakdown.
So we suck it up
and shake down our baser impulses.

We hoist them up
by their underwear
and share them with the world

as objects of ridicule.
This is the purpose
of our schooling.

Each grueling day
the memories of each lesson
reinstate themselves,

a perpetual coup d’etat.
Each grueling day
feels like raw meat

in a toothless mouth.
Each grueling day
we travel farther south,

but our purpose is undetermined.

-r. miller


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