Ryan Michael Owens

Sin Tax on Cigarettes

“Here’s bliss,” of course,
or the stiff-sigh ghost-shrug, or her spine
creased to a visceral sleep, the recipe being
abhorrence, or the cellophane fly,
or the cursive Jesus Christ,
you’re boring,

and oxygen—
which is never enough.

Candaulist

“I mind the malaise okay,
The blasé metro behavior—”

she’s a stunner,
vacant as my lazy

eye is the machine
I’ve always wanted to be

okay.

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