reviews for the revolution: WINDEX WE CAN

the other day I read someone a poem in a telephone booth & I talked to him about how a lot of people suck at linebreaks & nobody was really crafting lines anymore & it made us both sad even though I had a heart on my face. it did make me sad. it does. not that line breaks are some grand phenomenon of man harnessing nature or anything except they are. last night I was reading windex we can (wheelchair party) by rc miler because I had gotten stuck on a whole bunch of subways & I remembered that I had said I would review this book so when I got home, I didn’t read it for a long time because I couldn’t decide on a song to listen to while I wrote about it, because I had this vague sense of a specific song from the last time I read it. I never figured out what the song was, but here are some of the songs I listened to for thirty seconds in an attempt to find the right song:


Barely Breathing (Duncan Sheik) / Juicebox (The Strokes) / Sex and Candy (Marcy Playground) / Lovers Who Uncover (Crystal Castles) / Noah’s Ark (CocoRosie) / Symphony No. 9 (Ludwig van Beethoven)


none of those songs were the right song, but none of those songs were the wrong song, so eventually I decided to write without a song, which is not something I do often.


this worked out perfectly because halfway through the second poem I decided to read the whole thing out loud to myself. this is arguably the best way to experience windex we can.



“toasted” by rc miller


it is possible that it might be more interesting to sit alone in a small partially enclosed space with rc miller himself while he reads the poems to you, but I personally would not prefer that because one of the things that intrigued me about the “I” of windex we can was the way it was both empty and alive, definitely organic but impossibly hollow, and I felt like it was something I could very easily get inside, and the inside is lined with mirrors in which the outside is reflected.


like, in STUNGTIME,


“Often I park my car, want to sleep and even yoga. / One day skins the daft / twilight an antenna of animal skins. / There’s absolutely every reason to remain convinced fire counts minds getting paid to do it.”


which is not only how I often feel but is very much about the line as a kind of  luxuriously shallow breath, like at the apex of a stretch or the skin of grammar swollen up like a sore. right now, my ankles are covered in stings and I am scratching the skin off them like I do every summer when the only thing my body can feel is bitten, &


the language scratches at the skin of syntax until it is not skin but the underneath of it, the machine out of which the surface is made; you can still tell it is skin, or could be.


this could be the same thing as saying “steinian” except without delusions of game theory. by which I mean, its flesh is in loops & explains itself, like, FLESH IN LOOPS, “Asses create blindness / … / Holes in the sun fall flesh in loops.” this is a quality I admire in a book : a book that is so of itself that it forms a theory of itself & can best be read thus, & the theory it creates is an open network composed entirely of universal adaptors of a particular kind. also, bataille, with his sun-pure orifices. in all cases, the structure creates a light(ness), which is both the cause and result of blindness.


the blind prophet is intimate with the structure of the drama. this is how he knows time in all possible directions.



cover image for WINDEX WE CAN, drawn by the man himself

cover image for WINDEX WE CAN, drawn by the man himself



it is in this manner that miller’s syntax pours itself into the line, a metrical latex thigh-high jiggling the contemporary nerve into a knob of exhibitionism, the stops especially heavy in HOPE, a shoveling endless sentences through a sieve, “bark to go resin & paralytics, annals ohm, blowguns, bob arts in / general, a classic mousse,” a drainage project made pertinent in the shaping, a hard-drinking thinker wearing plastic barbie shoes, crying at the tv dinner, laughing at the news. remedies won’t exist after the new revolution. we shall raise the corps de aurality, “the GREAT / won’t exist” —

“Windex we can.”


Go read it, B*tCh3$zz.


About this entry