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Jay Miner

born 1973 buffalo, ny, has lived in michigan and arizona and now resides in nevada. publishings included at: rebel's advocate, wooden head review, fuck!, lucid moon and at the-ho!d.

340 3rd St., #229
Sparks, NV 89431

 

 

 

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Jay Miner


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  • A Walk
        down the hall.
  • poem
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  •  duo poetry with
        Jeff Filipski
    • A Walk down the hall.

      A Walk down the hall. Reveals blood stained carpet crimson. And then, there you are. You get washed in the shower because you are dirt like that. You take a bath, try to wash it all away. But the earth has driven itself into you, like a well made pottery. Has it's own designs that have dug deep into your flesh and lines across your face.

      Hollow echo of body fluid running it's way throughout the pipes of vacant homes. Red scars adorning the wrists of young girls. Girls who try to fire up the words, make it count. Make some semblance of vocal songs stick and burn into the night. But the night is a tiresome bitch. Out here on black and blank streets. Streets so blank they saturate like loneliness and longing, here to hurt. Make you blind. Stick hot pokers in your eyes and watch you squirm…image of someone screaming with kabob skewers being forced into his or her head while limbs (arms/legs) flail helpless as the dawn, yes.

      Your corpse hanging true from the sprinkler (fire code enforced fire suppression system in a building.)

      My teachers in school always told me not to perform one sentence paragraphs, but I suspect they were just uptight, deprived, depraved, and under-paid.

      False anger and apprehension from a crowd full of savants. People who read and hear your words. Like some local art scene. People who hang out and drool at the thought of being a recognized force in some small smoked out space. And willing to die for the chance to be in the spotlight. You do the right thing. Fire the words off, only because you must. Rid yourself of the hot compulsion and leave the room. Envy on their faces enough to fuel a hungry world.

      Sit down in a room with a masked stranger that stares. One table, a few chairs. One cup of cold coffee, black as the night. The wordless staring gets to you as does the confinement of the room. Slashing the self all up and dangling from a rope that was left for you. You also take off the mask and exit the room casual, as if nothing had ever occurred.

      All while you swing lightly from the stars and sail above the city that never knew you.

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      Just like a nun high on mescaline

      Twisted sister on a Sunday parade
      Mangled on a mission

      It was a few years ago already
      Still I can't get beyond it

      Young and dumb and full of idealistic wandering expression

      Alone somewhere in Arizona
      Scared and nervous and wondering where to hide

      The only answer was and is to bury my face into her holiest of holy
      Pan for gold (and)

      Watch her eyes roll silent into the backs of our minds
      While the venetian blinds flap like an old and broken film
      Falling off the side of a movie projector - pre 1990's

      While the air conditioner rattles out of control

      Twitching insect in a meadow of seething summer bliss

      She would roll and panic like a carnival act
      Barking for some king of platform fame
      And would ask the gods to deliver
      The only thing that I could
      As I was out of my mind
      Wrecked and paranoid
      Pile-driving in a frozen state

      Afraid to retract and you all should know why

      Because
      Be it the booze, or your smoking lungs, or
      The fires of fornication

      Once we step out of any one of our own self constructed comas

      There breathes a wide world full of ghost train rides
      Stares us in the face
      The driver takes a swig of death
      And swings into the dark
      Questioning yet again
      Where your level of tolerance is at.

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