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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