There ain’t a clever way to say it. The body hurts. The mind stays clear. I go for the temporary fix by washing away the immediate clutter built up, but a stain unaddressed days after the coffee spilled is not so easily washed away with a rag and warm water. It always starts with pornography and always ends with an unavoidable memory. 

Again the mind stays clear of the debris. But the body can only remember the perfection. My body aligned squarely with yours. Every flawless curve you happened to be born with. The way your body clenches in all the right spots. The way everything fit so well. 

None of this is fair, attempting to find responsibility for an act beyond the one physically in front of me. Mentally, the moment hadn’t come yet. My body had, though, effectively. 

by ty miller

listening to local h’s bound for the floor

listening to local h’s bound for the floor

I’ve learned all my lessons before now. 

Broadcasting live from a psychosomatic merry-go-round, centerpiece of this beautiful 1990s mall furnished with red carpet. That’s right! Malls had carpet at one point! Parents on an honor system, keeping blind faith in the cleanliness of their children’s shoes. 

My eyes can only travel as far as I allow them. Dedication reserved for a peeling Coca-Cola label on a fountain drink dispenser in a timeless food court that wouldn’t dare be updated. A certain hominess with the Christmas crowds when the very life of their holiday season hinges on whether or not they succeed here and here alone. 

And you just don’t get it. 

Up and down we go. Never breaking rhythm but intensely we lean in. No change in tempo, no baroque overdrive, still we expand to a needed output sans exhaust. And around we go. Horsey maintains her or his facial expression, no matter how much older you get. 

You keep it copacetic. Revolve. What good is confidence? Revolve. Dillard’s is so endless. Using a map wouldn’t guarantee we make it across. You know it’s so pathetic. 

I love opening the book on a false history, mixing my own young experiences in a wished upon nostalgia. 

Born to be down. We learn to accept it. 

by ty miller 

10-key calculator

10-Key Calculator

Dated tech lacking chic vintage form, a clink and clank of keys welcoming a certain sexual vigor before succumbing to the stick of the number 7 key. No more than six or so seconds of video is needed to deliver home the irony – none of this is sexy, but the charm alone too deadpan to ignore.

The 10-key calculator skills video is a punctual move. No desperation included, just the sweet satisfying sound of a zip seal on a Zip-Lock EZ seal bag. A move so uncommon, I use it on girls I have only moderate interest in. Too easy like ripped from the pages of a book I wrote, an identity crisis forthcoming as predictable as this Monday.

Star key. Print. Rip the receipt. Fun fact: The minus button is pressed after the input. 

by ty miller

night time driving

night time driving

Again, I’ve left her apartment past midnight. On a work night at that. What a stupid term – work night. Much like school night. Why bother describing the evening if your mind is on the next day?

She moved further out to a more accepted part of the city. Target Superstore nearby. Chik-Fil-A drive-thru line regularly wrapped around it. Extending my drive to 7-8 excruciating minutes of slightly worn Interstate. Apartment complex, fairly new. Parking spaces limited, so three buildings away it is. Eventually I make it to my car.

Four speed bumps later, the next obstacle – the gate. How close to approach before it starts opening? Here’s an inch. Nothing. Okay, another. Nothing. Fine, take a couple of feet. WHOOSH! Oh shit, reverse reverse reverse!

Now I wait. The street is running perpendicular up ahead. A dead and clear backdrop. Nothing to contemplate or dream of. Just the 7-8 minutes between this gate and my bed.

By ty miller