a poem by R.C. Miller

Burning Month

Chewed and cooked square in the heavens swapped bare,
Maybe we're done touching the way of things.
I tell you I love you,
Pausing astride your breasts to sigh basically.
I hate everyone though I tape them.

The squirrels are spayed infants and graze just what.
Grandpa was a manipulative slut.
That's why he got Alzheimer's and spits 20 years of it.
Grandma I'm lost.
Let's spruce up nursing home costs.

Good evenings ain't normal people.
Only an incubator complimenting a suitcase set on roulette.
And with vague plans may our periods shuck
One moment from another growing too dense to be
Nothing out of the ordinary drifting through town a while.

Sacred mysteries have wrought blue this place.
Brick pastures lining the precious and billed
Bay at the runes darkening like a bestiary.
The wreckage, the precepts, then awake in some pre-owned life I snake,
Never falling asleep for zeal of death's appeal.

 

Return to Issue 27