by: r. miller
The After-Party
once all the backwash clears
and only rudimentary sediment
or sentiment remains?
No good-time promises
to clog the neural pathways,
nor guarded motivations.
We vicious ones will have our day
in hell like we'd wanted all along.
The data will consume us
and belch a satisfied song.
Thus the wonderment can begin in force,
and the pedestal upon which perch
our futile passions yield to gravity.
I found this ache inside of me
that had grown too cramped for its quarters.
So I made the necessary renovations
to accommodate it.
Despite my sincerest efforts,
I could not learn to hate it.
Even after it died,
I kept its corpse around for decoration.
Follow me into a brand new confrontation,
fresh and wet and teeming
with unseemly speech.
Obscene gestures mark the minutes here,
for all who would receive them.
From these, I'll spin the fabric
of a darker etiquette,
lustrous and warm,
to protect against these churlish snows
which sometimes flourish here.
Second Wind
Let's give the mundane a try,
a sly wink from across the table,
something confounding, preposterous.
In actuality, bloodlust is in fashion
and difficult to ignore, particularly
if you run with the boho set.
There's just something about this agenda
that distorts the tempo of colloquial speech.
The whole damn infrastructure's
gone frustrated and tired, as we eye it
helplessly from our ruined perch.
Whatever tactical advantage
was cultivated now withers distinctly,
and I'm turning 18 again
(So long, Chronology).
Just in time to wipe the spit
from the corners of my mouth,
declutter the old base of operations.
If only I were feeling ambitious in the least,
I could move these mountains to tears.
Something Like That
They laid the barriers which
would block the path of Progress,
then laid a hefty breath
that stunk like meat and age
upon the febrile heart of the People.
Something like that.
You know, I could be more fatalistic
if I didn't have to try so hard.
And night is only 500 yards away
in the distance doing
a weird kind of disco.
Something like that.
Why am I unable to procure
a proper name for myself and situation?
What are the ethics, even?
There will be time now to feast
and fall from the precipice
once the correct drugs
have left their mark in the blood.
Something like that.
Clearly, I'm unfit to fill
the good guy role for which
I once felt overqualified.
I go on waiting like a clueless chump
for holidays to crystalize
out of flickering ephemera.
The battle hum dies before
getting past my lips, pale and parched
by winter's starch white touch.
Something like that.
r. miller is an avant-garde poet residing in the wilds of southern Pennsylvania. His poems have been featured in Petrichor, Angry Old Man, taxicab, New Reader Magazine, and various other print and online publications.
"The After-Party" deals with getting older, reevaluating positions you may have held when you were younger that experience has shown are no longer tenable, and gaining a better grasp on who you are. The moment I was envisioning while writing this was the one of brief, poignant clarity in the waning hours of a party, as you begin to sober up and wonder what any of it is for.
"Second Wind" was written at a time when I was feeling disconnected from my poetry. I hadn't been feeling the same joy as I had before. It was all beginning to seem more like work than fun. This poem came from the moment where I rediscovered the joy that writing had once provided.
"Something Like That" is another poem about reevaluating former positions and gaining a better grasp on who you are, even though these may come accompanied by disappointment. The refrain "Something like that" which punctuates each stanza is the speaker acknowledging the limitations in expressing theirself through language.