Instinctual Entropy

He flung about his feelings
toward the cafe culture
that surrounded him,
afraid his thoughts might drown
inside a cappachino cup;
his fingertips
might start transforming
into warm espresso beans.

"You say - you feel
        alone.
Well, you are not alone
in that.  We all feel
quite alone."

The clutter of high energy
exchange, of theories
hinged to boarded doors.

He ran his hand along
a mile of masking tape;
he ran the gamut,
like an unburned cigarette.

"I refute existence."
The inevitable entropy
of "I do nothing.
Nothing is done to me."

His is the variation
of a Darwin riff,
the node through which
some pompous scientist relates.

"I'd love to paint you beautiful
with smeared ink on pink thighs."

-Neal Miller, 1994



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