Poetry

August 3, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Ric Capucho photo

 

By

Elias Miller

 

 

 

my poetry is gone

 

 

my poetry is gone, his bottle is empty

tapping it repeatedly only gives drops,

the dross of language, he drunk walks

wearing black socks on cold feet

 

my poetry is gone, he took the last train

leaving only one shoe and a musical note

under a squeaky floorboard in the sleeper car.

a guitar strummed “oh suzannah”

 

my poetry is gone, he kicked the bucket

and buried himself in the midwest

under anonymous tumbleweeds and hard scrub

after vultures picked clean his bones

 

my poetry is gone, he took the freeway

evading authorities for hours

until he crashed into a school bus

and was subdued on foot with a baton and a taser

 

my poetry is gone, he fled to mexico

in the back of dusty taqueria truck

where he now siestas on a beach

beside sand scorpions and warm margaritas

 

my poetry is gone, he was vaporized

by a cruise missile meant for ISIS.

the army apologized, two officers arrived

and said it was only friendly fire

 

my poetry is gone, he got lost in the library

wandering the philosophy stacks

somewhere between CAM 190.204 and CAN 190.305

leaving duodecimal fingerprints in the dust of a forgotten card catalog

 

my poetry is gone, he escaped from maximum security

through an underground tunnel on a bike

up a ladder to a construction site

where he gave me the finger and skidded away on his motorcycle

 

my poetry is gone, he vanished in the bayou

after a manhunt through the mangroves

as police hounds barked throughout

and gators slid cleverly into dark water

 

my poetry is gone, he was shot into space

to orbit with satellites and debris

where he watched weather patterns

and spied on the military moves of north koreans

 

my poetry is gone, he grew up and went to college

where he pledged a fraternity and spent two years

drinking beer and dating coeds

before being expelled for academic malfeasance

 

my poetry is gone, he became anonymous

and processed spreadsheets in cubicles

only phoning the IT department when printing stopped

for the ranks of pressed shirts and corporate automatons

 

my poetry is gone, he was only a lark, a soupçon,

a thought bubble that popped

as it floated in the ocean of consciousness

and amused a few sharks before he fled

 

my poetry is gone, oh my poetry is gone

but his collar said “if found please return”

so come home to me you old hound,

your worn leash is waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

reborn

 

do you remember my reply, one finger parallel to the sky?

– The Shins

 

 

you were reborn in the bathtub at the Comfort Inn

Denver snow blanketing details

scrub and sagebrush forgotten until the thaw

blue skies drawn on cinder blocks

white capped flat rooftops

burlap clouds blowing fine dust

 

you fell out and slid on white tiles

eyes open for the first time

thin towels out of reach

mirror fogged except for the corner near the heat lamp

worn paperback half soaked, moved by the door

slow steam rose from shaking limbs

 

you heard vacuums drone down the hall

though the TV played 80s’ music

Split Enz, the Police, New Order, the Cure

regressions of your past life soundtrack

Ray Bans, pegged pants and flat top cuts

always looking for a date sometime in the future

 

no doctors were there to suture the tear

you swayed on rubbery legs

swaddled and stumbled into bed

head peaked, fontanel open

wrapped poly-cotton sheets, blackout curtains

hiding the high-plains desert softened by snow

 

I never fully considered the postpartum

the moment I told you where to go.

 

 

 

 

 

Elias Miller

Elias Miller evolved in California in the mid-90s before the dotcom boom, when TVs still gushed radiation and social media wasn’t even a Hershey’s chocolate bar in Bill Gates’ back pocket. Steeped in the waning idealism of the 70s and the materialistic indoctrination of the 80s, he found words as mere approximations of reality and ultimately developed a way to express ideas and meaning in a compressed poetic form. He built steam for many years while living in New Zealand by frequenting the now defunct MSN writing websites, and presently hails from Atlanta in the fecund humidity of southern cognitive dissonance. His poetry was first featured in the print collection Last Night’s Dream Corrected from Pretend Genius Press, which ultimately culminated in his published anthology, Belt Loops and Bird Food. He is currently assembling work for his next book, i dream of peach seeds.

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