The Good News

Put the bane on hold,
backwards, or perhaps…
Out of emptiness, my heart
snaps to like an eager cadet
with something to prove.
Now, it’s only love
will move the meager.
About a guess, I’d wager.
Filibuster on a professional scale.
Pardon the good news,
I’ve all lost count of my midi-chlorians,
and yes, it seems drastic because it is.
How’d I get so effervescent,
I may be wondering,
and offer no strong critique.
The meek shall inhibit the earth.

-r. miller

Someone Precious

Vex these ghastly atoms!
Unlimited bread and circuses,
yes please, merci beaucoup,
and while we’re at it,
fuck you for your patience.

Transients all, we idle
in the abandoned schoolyard,
speaking terms nixed.
Talk about a mixed bag.

Later, and only later, I get my swelter on.
Time to push back against the blankets
keeping me distressed and warm.
All over getting dressed again.
A swallow of someone precious.

He loves me mostly for my specter,
passionate protector of all
that hammers the point home.
The moment where our gazes intertwine
is steadily, stealthily,
stupefyingly weaponized.

-r. miller

Night Sweats

It happens
when I dream of sleep.

Sudden suspense,
if you must kill me,
do so not with kindness,
and grant me a last meal.

Real talk.
I pull this stalk
of rude vitality with impunity.
The fabric of our lives
imbibes night sweats.
A vortex of worst-
case scenarios arrives

to take in the scenery.
The damage is
almost everlasting.

-r. miller

The Thick of It

… And the crisis continues.
Intrusions mostly, but also
muddled meanings, intentions.
We get on by getting on.
To do otherwise would undo
the progress we’ve made.
The automatic lighting overhead
reveals the word of the day.
I only get one way of looking.
Finally reaching the maximum dispute,
my disposition caves.
Just like last time, only friendlier.

-r. miller

Other Times

Across this smiling distance,
the fog relaxes. Meanwhile,
elaborate vocabularies erupt
from hidden pockets of green.

There’s these systems, y’see,
big ones and bigger ones,
interlocking tendrils and all.

Sometimes, we stumble into them
only to find our prices have fallen,
a blurry rage rising to occupy space.
Other times, we race surreptitiously away,
back to the suburbs and their inordinate peace.

-r. miller

This Rough-Hewn Moment

Truly a touching display,
violent ephemera come to rest
politely on the periphery.

The scrolling clouds offer up
bite-sized wisdom in passing,
but using a language no one speaks.
And the springtime air variously reeks
of rain, lavender, and loneliness.

We may apply a fine gloss
to the surface of this rough-hewn moment
should we choose to accept it,
for what it is and what it represents.
We may hold it close
with great care and contempt,
for as long as our hands
are capable of grasping.

-r. miller


A new not newly
minty-misty musk,
such that permeates
and permutates
the sickly cells we are,
un-vaguely vagabonds
thro’ the bondaged air
with hope grasping
at its cattails,
but diminishingly.

-r. miller


We seem to be increasing,
increasingly codified, modified
by mechanisms too abstract
and shameful to perceive with gazes intact.

The acting manager is elsewhere,
nowhere in range. And then
these intuitions or notions arise,
emitting strange radiation
all over the blasted room, bringing with them
lovely and familiar auspices of doom
to dispel the boredom.
My heart beats its bloody fists
against the window of my brain.
The resulting stain eats its way into the glass.

Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,
not on my five-to-ten year plan.

But who am I to be making plans?
Shouldn’t my plans be making me?

-r. miller

(sub)Prime Directives

Let the riotous disenchantment commence.
Commemorate this moment forever
in secondhand accounts and firsthand interpretations.
Take to the streets in electrified silence
and make perception your plaything.
Fill your angry bellies with overripe doubts.
Dance away your aggression in lackadaisical jerks.
Bleed out thoughtfully, with agency.
Sink softly into the murky embrace of your own shadow.
Let insomnia be your guide.

-r. miller

New Loss

Out of new loss,
old givens spurt,
coldly aromatic.
And we, we are boldly automatic
in our grieving procedure.
The pageantry of wringing hands,
the silver film across the eyes,
obscures what could have been
a starburst of clarity.
Thus we scrounge for charity
among the roving concrete clamor,
even as that selfsame clamor
deprives us of desire,
focus, and effulgence.

-r. miller