*Insert Propaganda Here*

Before the Caffeine Begins to Wear Off

So my red energy is dwindling,
my pathos is simpering,
and my once faultless ego
is pathetically whimpering.

At least I have a song in my heart.
At least I can depart
without fear of retaliation.

At least I can hear what the bled night is saying.

-r. miller

For When You Go Searching and Come Up With Nothing

A slumped slandering, this
our gifted aperture.
It pertains only to exploitation,
experience, and the usage of names,
and names only a privilege.
What spreads its doleful bedroll
into the distances dancing
like harem fans is the worried future,
the future that is to be
our furniture. Our gift is plain
wonder in the hurried shouts
stowed in the throats of birds.
Who authorizes our desire
to be more than pencils pushing
into the serpentine wilderness
Shifting in thought, we bought
only the farmhouse grift,
or something inessential
as a pitcher of blue Kool-Aid, because who
really enjoys the taste of blue?

-r. miller

Glad to Know That You Have My Back

So much so – memory becomes an implosion.

The tangle of murmurs
creeping through the air
like some punk kid out past curfew.
The tension, coiling like a fist,
until the uproar stored in the palm
could no longer be contained.
and when the tantrum let up,
it was a travesty of aesthetics.

Yeah, there was discourse,
theories, postulates, all concerning
the relation of body to politic,
and grandstanding,
and gasping, and passionate throes.
For all anyone knows,
it was an upheaval.
There was a certainty though,
a gleam in the eye of the hurricane.

I made a point to point it out.
Naturally, nobody cared.

And where were you exactly
when all of this was happening,
erupting as weeds
through cracks in the sidewalk?

Anywhere? Nowhere?

That was where I found myself anyway,
after the fallout, heaviness
strumming my tired head
with a hurt the size of a crater.

There’s an art to patience I guess,
but what’s patience really worth
when you end up waiting for nothing?

-r. miller

“Never Get Yr Hopes Up” Is My Rallying Cry

A spark or two of purity
cracking in the baffling glare
of hindsight – by rights,
this is what is due to me.
Or rather, some fragile vacancy.
The shifting blather banging
in my brain’s feeble helm
cements my dislocation,
and I arrive where expectation

burns out in a shouting match.
I’ve latched on to a few
too many expectations,
and the result is always the same.
Now, I have no one to blame
but myself. Pursuits
are drained with a strangling
purpose, so it goes.
So it goes, et cetera.

-r. miller

He Goes Wherever the Road Leads Him

The desperate lunatic speaks
his piece and moves on
to a warmer clime.
Without a reason to wander,
he’s thrown up his backpack,
whose splattered contents
reveal no glimpse
of his former capacities.
The cavities of his spirit
have grown to an inordinate depth,
and each breath is a last ditch effort
to reclaim his once glorious stature.
Names are a concept
for which he has no use,
having revoked his long ago
like a postal code with no inhabitants.
In fact, he considers
any form of identification
the ego misrepresenting itself.
He goes on his way
like a funeral dirge,
excited by no sudden surge
of concentration, contemplation,
or anything relating
to an interior process.
Onlookers have witnessed
before the spectacle
of his presence,
and his presence is abnegation
in the strictest sense.
Incense fumes
from his ragged feet.
Their march is a march
that reckons the street

-r. miller

That Awkward Moment

Aching to fondle their snatches -
patches of desire pasted
against the fire of obtuse confusion.
I’ m caught in a profusion
of grammatical errors blaring a rage
through my headache,
and where shall it end?
A rending of muscle
to withered tissue
with a lurid kiss.

-r. miller

Dive Bar Montage

The arm emerges from
the shoulder emerges from
the neck emerges from
the head emerges from the mind.
The kind of friend who would
back you up in a brawl,
but that’s all he’s good for.
Stay for more drinks, I implore you,
just so long as you’re able
to drive with minimal risk
of self-destruction.
It’s the process of induction
that allows us to say the sun
is going to come up again
tomorrow, or that there will be
a tomorrow in the first place.
No, is there something on my face?
Grace and wafers wafting
through the tear ducts.
I said it’s induction, you’re thinking
of intercourse, as usual,
you of the coarse mannered jib
with your glib remarks about
human dignity.
Dignity is just one way to die
out of a plethora. I’d die
for pornography, the kind I’ll know
when I see, but who’ll die for me?
Plethora. Loose gums. Overture.
You’ve overloaded the pint glass
with the corrosive battery dust
of my will, and instilled
a horrible mess. Blessed
are the forgetful, Nietzsche said,
and then, he too forgot,
as he tried to save the horse
he thought was mankind
from the lashes of conscience.

-r. miller

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