temporary id

We look for pieces of identification

It saves us the trouble of reaching deep into our pockets

Running our hands over lint and wrappers of peppermints

Long discarded

Our hands, ripped skin, removing them from jeans that have grown too tight

From overeating or growing age or all of the above

Never fear the fear of growing complacent

It’s just a temporary fix

While we readjust our awareness to the magic of what’s truly important

Focused, tired and busted from the day, still coming out on top

No one can tell us any different

No gen x motherfucker, as much of a friend they are, can instill a single insecurity 

In you

This is what we are

We don’t need anything more than the simple we embrace

Slowly and surely, breathing calmly when times get tough

We’re unstoppable because we decided to have a choice

And make it ours alone

monday morning meeting

tight waist band

holding up what’s left and awake

the faucet of artificial sugars runs for the sake of it

into a body so hard to build

so pathetically easy to crumble

now i’d like to just feel a regular level of gravity on my eye lids

lift the oh so important stress levels from your own

but buried are we in a corporate fantasy land

where the shit gets done, at any cost

at each and all’s disposal

 

a cosmic discipline on the snare

the laws of the galaxy never take a day off

every waking moment is spent beating away the old to make room for the unspectacular new

in a time of unquestionable doubt and existentialism tearing away at the fabrics of our well being

the cosmos stay firm in place within their mystery

never will understanding come from the rhythm as our bones wither under the weight of ‘why?’

no matter how meaningless you make yourself in an attempt to latch onto a piece of self-deprecating importance

we unwillingly always remain in time

one lucid industrial lullaby

samples unrelated find each other side by side

i never thought this stream of lucidity could keep them all together at once

the clink and clank with each weak current

so sensitive, so jarring and tight for space

as they unwillingly push themselves around for domination

the dreams and lullabies move in quickly to corral

taming this moment, finding a way to make it work

and appreciation is founded by this unexpected cohesion and focus to unfold so graciously and with such forceful peace

no other explanation comes forth other than the belief that anything can mix

given enough tweak and loving attention

you can make anything always meant to be

 

sleep discomfort

sleep discomfort

I wish I could lay like in a casket

Head facing the ceiling, gathering information from the tin lined ceiling

As easy as a trance, sleep conquering the eyes first and proceeding to move the remaining body to stasis

My pillow becoming a slippery slope of a deeper conscious state and disappearing into relaxation and rest recovery

Instead I fight with my side to eliminate every lump my neck finds

Until finally I lay on my stomach, opposite of my desires

And I compromise with discomfort to discover any reprieve I can grasp with my fingertips 

9:30 P.M. to 6:15 A.M. in bed, 3.5 hours of sleep acquired

Will the doctors laugh when I ask them to prescribe me a decent pillow and a crack in my breathing?

Or should I work three times as hard during the daytime to guarantee the aching will no longer hold me back from waking anew? 

by ty miller

dating

dating

Information overload. 

Priorities are to be put in place. We’ve got Project A & B in motion, and Project W is currently in development. We make the money we need to eat and pay our debts, but we simultaneously slave away on labors of love. Speaking of love, shouldn’t we be considering that too among the projects?

Great, let’s set up another dating profile, sift through the shit to find the one woman not quoting Michael Scott. Then, among the candidates we’re actually physically attracted to, look for some unseeable intimate and unique reflection of someone who might just avoid the resume and small talk. 

The truth is I don’t care how haunting your past is or any dreams you may have for the future. Admit it, you feel the same about me because it indicates nothing about who we are right now, nor should it. Can you exist in this present with me, or do we dance between what your friends expect and what you actually feel? Everything about you was so beautiful until you started throwing your idea of a self-perceived external opinion at yourself. 

I never gave a shit about the things you do, did, or will do. The things that you label yourself with: dog mom, drug user, football tailgater, or kawaii as fuck. I loved the person you are. The person I see when you turn off the neon sign and allow my eyes to adjust to the dark and natural.

To create an identity out of talking about the mortgage or getting high to escape the sins of this very existence is taxing for me, but welcome to 2019 dating for ages 26 and up and/or on your way out. 

Constructive self-criticism now. My downside is I’m often too quick on the draw in revealing myself, too open and too kind to those I choose to trust too soon. Not considering the fact that everyone crushes on their own pace leaving myself an open field to rain down hellfire of truth-dodging tactics and a lack of peace of mind. I just wanted to get close to you to avoid the noise, not bathe in it. 

Dating isn’t bad, but it’s often not for me. 

by ty miller

lonely

lonely

Smells are too pungent and natural daylight is too rare. If only someone were here to express these frustrations. Lay in my bed, say nothing, sleep happy, and feel rested. I can do without my detestable details and overly intricate expectations, as long as you can do the same. A time will come where I’ll ask you to dive into my brain with me. I hope you’ll join me but also be brave enough to yank me the fuck out when I’ve started to fry both our circuits.

Being lonely with myself and with others, it’s a self-inflicted state of mind wound. Hell bent on bringing the word itself to fruition while pushing aside the already established – we’re always alone. 

Instead I’d let you rest all day while I plunge into my mind, crafting my next battle plan. I’d look up to watch you sleep, prepared for the first eyelash to lift from below your eyes to welcome you with black coffee at first sight. That’d be enough. You be alone. I’ll be alone. 

Climb down from my loft, sip from your cup, and look out the window in your underwear at the birds. I return to my war chamber to plot the day. Never minding for one second, though, your invasion of my space is welcomed. Rest a head here or there. Share a laugh or nine. Smile, walk away back to sleep, look at the birds again, or start your own farmer’s market for all I care. 

Just be, forget the rest. Forget the world, their opinions, even those you share the room with. Be alone and love alone. 

by ty miller

 

sex

sex

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