TACO CUSTOMER
My mutant,
The seasons of the discontented,
My storms rewarding a pesky television,
The shells celebrating their durable fiction,
Those fictions conveyed as orbs to honor wholesome lesions,
And lesions enhance the simmer of pandemic cosmetics,
Her cosmetics impatient with the pace of haunted rampage,
The rampage is purest in cocktails negating bumper sticker tumors,
The tumors graduate from an impious processor,
Our process paints the word profit on t-shirts,
Our t-shirts at ease if hemoglobin erodes monetarily,
The frequency of immoral paychecks is a practical threat,
Extension chords disgrace stumps of optimism and telepathy,
Advanced humanity so smudge resistant but mostly nightmarish,
And fascinating are salt licks that reign beyond
The bloodthirsty dawn rising inverted,
My season of mutant storm,
The discontentment of a pesky shell,
My reward.
SOUL HARD
Able to afford laden animism,
The soothsayer's salary obeys our brutal fling.
Peeled rolls deny moss sensation.
Ravenous mistakes consume witty comas.
Freely do fierce swigs of fine dinner gin
Reverse our leather
Buying rancor and blues records.
An awkward group of fatigued skeletons
Wag their spoons at interruptions,
And I am cradled by perfume
Emanating from sacred saucepans.
The pickled breeze inspires hallucinations.
My tattered princess sets the strangest table.
Our limbs repulse wealth in the pattern ditch.
Her love is now ready
To defend the clarity of this complicated luxury.
Her love is on my knees
Predicting that my rose will be our panther.
THE BUSINESS MODEL FOR IN-STORE TV VARIES
We walk around a corner without purpose.
The configurations shaping the corner may be mentally established.
They are boundaries for other boundaries.
Around the corner, it sounds without purpose.
A sound nears, forgets, then suddenly remembers the corner walking over.
Figures lift a center and sides now grounded in floating.
Shapes implode earlier grounds whispering crowds.
Voices appear and begin speaking a sum of their actions.
I respond to the immediate actions you're fronting.
In the moments as you see them, I'm forced to act out what stops
In the middle of action.
We stop in the riddle of fraction.
Everything surrounding us arises, inverts and closes.
Invisible, the drone speculates our confusion.
It feeds and then it's floating.
Inverted and closed, its moment has forbidden motion.
This ingestion of frenzy causes pain to my chest and abdomen.
You stare at leaping hills fuzzy with trees and metal.
We drive nails into ourselves and skin gushes forth above the blood.
An earlier purpose for terrain slithers.
Inhaling at random, deterioration crawls.
Our eyes are not yet.
Born 1974 in Parkersburg, WV, RC Miller is a poet and photographer currently living in New York City. He may be found at his blog, VISION BLUES.
