The cooling phase has come to a close.
An emergent friction
is learning how to best express itself.
Oh, and the drinks are too watered down.

Mulling over the distinctions,
she shoots her shot and clears the air,
headache dispersing in partial flows.
Going everywhere shows
signs of harrowing potential.
They were and still remain unsure
of which filter to use.
And yet something ephemeral lingers…

Gosh, we sure showed them
signifiers what for, didn’t we?
To think they’d just capsize like that.
Truth is, some are just built for difference,
can sustain and nurture it against everything,
and above all, have a low threshold for inertia.

Exceed the bandwith with me, O encouraging ones.
The fissures are just beginning.

-r. miller

And We Are His Killers

We can express this indefinitely.
The I, being merely
a rhetorical device,
flows of indirection,
the totality of which.
Approaching the situation
with the catastrophic force of a tornado.
Abandoned to abject pleasantness,
we pick at the seams,
in hopes that what unravels.
The absolute gaze dissolves.
Silence is momentary.

-r. miller


Wed the appetites
without compunction.
Lest we discover
a name for this function,
why not feed it to the flows?
So much depends upon
perception’s productive capacities,
and even more on ensuring
their limitations.
The gaze is but a symptom,
settling disinterestedly
on the horizon.
Bet you weren’t expecting
this kind of emotional baggage.
This is the part where,
abandoned to the sideways rain,
the landscape collapses in full.
Why yes, I know where
to take it from here.
Why no, I will not take it.

-r. miller

What’s Left

My time here is growing cold.
The unnerving that we are
simply a matter of taste.
They heap decay about the outskirts,
skittering days unlatch portents,
a rather ominous.
New modes of meaning are a possibility then.
We’d prefer to pat the backs.
Simplified gestures to match wits,
weather funneling, o porous.
You speak the vapors.
They make a witness to the seeking
and register piecemeal languishing
the happenstance of utterance.
I declare myself dissolving in the hum,
your wet heart, your thumping eye.

-r. miller

For the Grace of Agency

Counting the abstract, their labor congeals.
Until dutifully coordinated distractions
dismiss out-of-reach and the weighing phase,
omit me. Speech is to act.
You could try writing aloud.
Scanning the equidistance for closed signifiers.
They fidget us improbably, foresight whispers.
My head in the accident,
atonally bound, uplifts its own splurge
for the grace of agency.
There cartridge unloaded in broad.
Merging then collapsible fantastic.

-r. miller


A sentence is a sentencing
but in the way you think.
Can you picture yourself picturing?
Be impolite about it.
The right kind of wake-up-call.

Revelations after a hard day’s reveling.
He remained in the right frame of mind
throughout the wrong portion of an afternoon.

Relations got shifted or mixed up in the fray.
We got by purely on formal logic.
The naked eye appears glistening.

So much retains an aura of unfamiliarity
in the crepuscular gloom,
the room and its contents,
the mind and its sum.
Disaster no longer waiting to happen.
The worst part of the whole procedure
just so happens.

-r. miller


One day, the medications shift.
A continual vacillation
between uplift and downgrade
occurs at the level of the personal.
This is what I mean. A closed caption.
They withstand the fragrance, undulating.
We bear witness forward.
And one day, neurosis, a beautiful face
collapses, and the floor blurs,
space is made. There, I wind the perplexity,
the efficacious kiss, ’round the one
who grasps the perceiving instrument.

-r. miller


The reigning furtive
spills its weathers,
punctuating miraculous.
Stupendous we overlooking
baked flood overturning.
Avert the quickly witless,
stay thy wade.
Inheritors of the sequence
calmly, good of flow,
feeble drenched running
alone, o’er catatonia.
Canned grace,
we dip discursively.

-r. miller

So Much Foreground

By my muddled muddlings,
I am able to discern peculiar
particularities or particular
peculiarities, don’t matter which,
but all the same, I’m troubled
by the fringed sun’s rumblings
and the land’s heft and swell.
So much foreground
for but one mind to imbibe.
I’m least likely to consider
the consternation of time
as it moves inscrutably
and even less likely to be moved by it.
There’s a certain resonance
that barricades itself within
the inner ear, holding all
the other resonances hostage
in the meanwhile as they tremble
in their gaudy undergarments
and beg for whatever mercy’s
most in fashion. I call this passion,
Alternate theories need not apply.

-r. miller

Only the Prodding

We could probably stand
to de-stress a little, fuck off
to some gem-encrusted island
just beyond the Pacific sun,
dipping into the ocean
like it was a great blazing
punch bowl or something.
After all, this town full
of dust mites and fried blood
don’t care about us.
Me, I mean.

Tie me down so I stop jittering,
fidgeting with my keys.
One of which unlocks
the luminous door in back of my skull,
so you can see the hectic
inside business going on.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.

I don’t like how the scenery
is playing out. I don’t see the point.
Only the prodding.
Have I been absolutely clear?
And here I was only looking
to feel mildly astonished.

-r. miller