Saturday, October 3, 2009


Ottoman aisles squash limbs
That pee 3-D, and
The results are splacktacular!
After one half-tank, you gots your autistic son back.
Even had a drink of the father.

My brain tumor was misdiagnosed as fixed human snow.
I may again anticipate tastes of takeout and birthday sex.
Indonesian quakes push forward selective ancestry.
No condom, no problem,
I've traded rotting for the light.

Feeding on a meteorite reassigns the parts of who I am.
I'm learning, slowly, the strange world of quarks.
Avocados hear no evil, see no planes.
The way they grow aware of me makes their bodies bold.
Incest is such an isolating crime.

My brain tumor was misdiagnosed as birthday sex.
Again, no problem, no condom; it's TV
It's not nicotine.
I smile like Queen Emily Schaffer and King Bryce Barbee.
Don't give a fuck.


Ani Smith said...

I can't figure out why I love the phrase 'birthday sex' - it feels simultaneously joyful and morose.

RC Miller said...

"Simultaneously joyful and morose" - that is the essence of how I live and what I write. Thanks Ani.