By Zoey Miller
We were bruised souls
With bleeding, busted lips and tattoos and pugilistic hearts,
Grown taunt and heavy from the sheer fabric of being
The moments weighing heavy on us like the broken bodies of comrades slung over shoulders
Charging one last trench
One last mound
Our muscle and sinew stretched
Hearts already broken by the mere promise of our future selves
We celebrated the names of dead pop stars
Like a pantheon of saints and angels
Littering their grave sites with cigarettes and booze and condoms and love
Excreting all of ourselves into ideals that never wanted us
Never loved us
We carry our fists clenched.
We were the poetry of the proletariat
Beautiful, small, wondrous birds
In a loud, big world
With their car horns and curse words and mid coitus screams drowning out our chirps and singsong coos
Songs that we use to get us through the day shifts and the night shifts and the prostitution in between
Who so ever it deemed
that a dandelion wasn’t a flower
Has never been to a goddamn strip club
Zoey is primarily concerned with moments. Are we defined by them? Do they accumulate one after the next until they create a clear image of who we are? Or do we objectively exist above and outside them? Zoey likes to create spaces in his writing to explore these questions along with the reader.
His inspirations are Noam Chomsky, hiphop music, Salinger, and most forms of whiskey.
He currently resides in central Ohio where he wages a notsosilent war against all things mundane.