— -

they threw me out of rehab,
so i got on the bus, at the bus stop,
with a blue mind.

rumors come back to me; but wait,
mister, where did you go?

i treat this like my motherfucking
thesis. out in the unread ether.
so listen to the sound,
while i lay down some sounds.

— -

go fuck yourself, and then
go fuck again. go fuck yourself and then
go fuck a friend. or walk down these streets,
these greasy streets: these pitiful homes of men
in sawbones. and then think on it, as you walk
down. but what else is there to do? and
i’ll tell you.

but — goodbye to all of that.
because where else is there to go?

— -

so tired that i could cry.
i’ll be here until i die,
riding down empty roads on a borrowed bike.
and grant me my one illimitable starless inscrutable hour.

I have an MFA in fiction, have written for lots of places, and don’t like writing bios. Reach me at oliveramiller@gmail.com

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