'untitled'
steven thomas miller
'yes it will kill me. but when?'
i say about every recognizable chain
they grab the toilet which is
practically green
and head into
the smokey red room
with mostly empty 40 bottles
which are clenched tightly
in the hands of the
wire and twist-tie pigeons
that invite the useless kitchen's scraps
outside
there are no moments that exist
between the door and the bed
nothing small enough to count
