The taste will destroy you

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Trending now – turbulence,
marriage proposals, aphophenia,
and hard-boiled discourse.
For the first time ever,
I think I’ll order off menu.
Tomorrow is a good day for floating.
And the falling flakes of debris
piling up around this idea I have of life
threaten to immerse it at any given second.
One more disappointment
for the finale, sayeth she
with her head on her knee
‘neath a panoply of bone.
Full blown wretchedness muscles in,
and the agony of stones.
In togetherness, we dine alone,
teeth against the fat of a lovelorn winter.

-r. miller

2/3/17

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Nothing to offer these
strange mental demons.
She screams at me alone,
her hands ablaze.
Days came and wept,
came and wept, until
no trace of either remained.
The plainer meaning did us in,
it seems, and took us
further into sleep.
I had to simmer.
Summer was a getaway car
with a broken taillight.
Then, of course, the cramps.
Posterior trash. Fits of finicky rage.
When these had aged us
most severely, we
took up cryptograms.
Hats off, then.
She alone can whip my head.

-r. miller

2/2/2017

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These tired emblems of history
move the land to tears.
The town and the country,
with all their swollen pathos,
and people in somber clothes,
who trudge clumsily up streets.
What I am greets the spectacle
with a handshake and several blisters
meant as metaphors. Lazily,
the smell of camphor climbs halfway
to the startled clouds. An alarm
is sounded, but why? Perhaps
to mobilize this despondent vignette,
inject a bit of color where color is wanting.
But what if the colors
are too intense in their character
and the scene, in its entirety,
collapses beneath the swarm?
Warm weather wouldn’t save us
ever again, maybe. This I could forgive.
I’ve been living here so long
that nothing amuses me anymore.
At least I have my electric teeth
and bad examples to keep me occupied.

-r. miller

2/1/2017

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Examine… Prospects disfigured…
The factory snow blowing overhead,
and similes. You smile quite literally
in the airy green that cradles you,
your hand on a candle
and your eyes in a dream,
a reverie stolen. Pollen wisps
of light on the breakable vista
you imagine. Only time to savor you.
So it moves… How lucid here…

-r. miller

1/27/17

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Felled by a marvelous wind,
we leave things as they are,
as we found them.
Gloom slinks somewhere
in the periphery.
A pause elicits no response.
We water the dark and are sated,
worn down the nerves
and flimsy shoes. All aboard
the blues express.
Dusk by the handful.
A marble altar for the centerpiece
and a gauge to monitor
our fleshy vibes.
We draw us to ourselves purposefully.
Refuted truths to feed
the hollow heads.
Simultaneous, we burn.

-r. miller

Distraction

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You can form this with your fingers.
Lingering, the horizontal line
leading from truth to trope
vomits wax happiness.
Newer taxes and newer shades of green.
You’ve seen the unlikely alliance
between the city and sleep;
it’s only grown deeper since you’ve aged.
Suddenly you see the rage
filtering through the screen door,
coming to wrench you
from your dream.

-r. miller

A licentious twittering

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So the silence
shapes the lust between us
into a corded ball.
The all you are
scares the whole of me,
doesn’t it now?
That’s how you have an accident,
and accidents are absolute.
Now it’s crucial
that we stay in tune,
keep in time,
leave our rhyming sonnets
at the door.
From within the body’s vast store,
a licentious twittering.
We’ll both be more
than nervous twitching
after this.

-r. miller