“cut all the cantaloupes, honey dews, and watermelons.
pick all the grapes. don’t complain. don’t let the citrus
get in your cuts. drink eight Budweisers to get your daily
allowance of water. be discreet about pocketing
quarter tips.”
I sit in the room making fruit salad.
the penitentiary is for tourists
billboards tell golf course jokes
remember, revenge is possible
“get on that machine, follow Gary, don’t let that old fascist
scare you, rake the edges of all 78 sand traps on the course
watch out for faulty irrigation.”
I sit on the back of the Sand Pro, sneezing
the ancient river lit up with fast food glow
after work, I drive to a punk show
I walk in the farmhouse not wearing the uniform
through cigarette smoke I see, on stage:
crisis
men singing of
neurons
tubes
glass
syringes – about Gaia.
the guns, meth, and genocide, of her
rumors of fratricide, matricide
inadequate storage cortex
onset paralysis
pretending to like
the music I nod and leave
let them see me
disappear into the corn field
Benjamin Lawrance Miller grew up in Wheeling, West Virginia and currently teaches composition and creative writing at Queensborough Community College (CUNY).
–Art by Magdalena Roeseler
