Savage prickly things we become
like comely waters surface
dispersed inklings going
out to touch the radius, somewhat
of a radical inclination, invitation
to decline as the worst
was yet over and here you are again

underhandedly spilling to a careful gallop
into polling nooks, necks adrift
and spinning however spun
abject sugar peel.
After which we must steal
whatever architecture
shares a texture with the thunder
oblong drumming in the fade, squeezing.

Can you squeeze a little or a lot harder
why I’ll see you in the next difficulty
without customary diatribe skimming.
So you have to bathe until shimmering,
unless using the cupped deluxe.
While we stay silent by the pruning,
not to dislocate the vanguard.

-r. miller

How’s about a double fist of tedium?
Broken-seeming scenes shifting
in both veracity and viscosity?

Now there’s a funny word,
biding its time, lingering in dim
pockets of our most basic mythology,
where daemons are said to dwell.

Possibly the illimitable hell
that we were promised is a part of this,
somehow, some way.
Terrific poisons fill the space
once designated for speech.
The all-encompassing algorithm
has fixed us in its hungry gaze.

-r. miller

How shall we move the light
when the light refuses?

Then we move through the refusal,
bones and everything

scattered about us, skins
of songs we know by rote,

shreds of the masks
we know by heart.

We move through swiftly,
beyond the comprehension of light,

somewhere beyond the syntax of light,
where the light becomes silk

in the mouths of clouds,
chewed by the rains

contained in those mouths
and spit into our laps.

-r. miller