J. C. Kuehn Miller

Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.


Turnstile floral arrangements circling
in the doorway, encased in glass walls;
the brief glimpse of beauty telling a story
of life spiraling down–

and I have front row seats.

Speak up, the roaring in my weary ears
is drowning out your feigned caring tone–
so you’ve been here before? Tell me
how the hell you made it out alive.
I’m a smudge on the window from a face
curiously looking out at a world, filled
with passing cars and freight trains speeding
north with empty crates hoping to be full
when they arrive at the end of the tracks.

You say you’re searching for a rhyme
and a rhythm in the chaos of the day,
well, here’s your mechanical breakdown.

As clouds and birds float in the sky,
you’ll see my face in a passerby
dreaming, sometimes of when we’ll see
each other, eye to eye.
With grout stained hands filled with
grains of sand, tossing passions
whirling in the wind, could you be
any more desperate for death, my friend?
Brick snuggled in mortar blankets–
we’ve never been so close as now
with your trinkets glimmering in the morning
sun, peaking through the bashful blinds
and modestly hanging curtains like anchors
of ships mooring off faithful shores.
I’ve been unkind and a wreck of a car
found in a ditch, covered in tar and pitch
hidden and wrapped by hapless vines;
but if you look into our minds, sharp
shards of porcelain bowls, broken,
will cut the binding cords keeping sleep
balancing on the dusty beams, laid over
cracks and crevices leading to the dark,
uncertain remains of a once cherished
memory, forgotten by everyone but me.

Look! A storm is growing over the horizon
flashes bursting like light reflecting
on the scales of a wandering fish.
If we get caught in the approaching torrents
cast down from a dismal sky by hands
of gods who have grown bored of their own
existence, we’ll certainly drown without
hope of rescue by those same hands.

With all heads bowed and all eyes closed,
the salvation I seek is just out of reach.
When the comfort of the evening fades
to the terrors of the night, restless, unrelenting,
paranoid musings of what happens
as I sleep– will the morning ever come;
will the monsters under my bed creep in
my head, treading on creaking floorboards;
will I wake up alone again, or will
my will not be enough for another day?

I told you all these things, but a sunrise
is the only remedy that you could offer.
So let’s dust off our rusty pulley system
and listen to the coo of the morning dove
singing its mournful song bringing
in another day to forget what happened
to our sorry selves, yesterday.


(Photo Credit)


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This entry was posted on August 7, 2013 by in Poetry and tagged , .
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