A Serious Turn

Along the great receding hairline,
conversation tends toward the maniacal.
Take these braised hearts, for example.

Over my dead body.

One agenda supplants another
with firmer conviction.
I admit, my diction hasn’t been the same
since… Since that thing that happened
that none of us can sufficiently articulate.

Well now all anyone does
is twist and shout, followed shortly
by delirium tremens
and a run on the bank.

I’m no longer comfortable
with the shape of my skeleton.
Best be passing on…

-r. miller

All at Once

We can’t just keep
leeching the color.
As for the weekend,
let’s see what sticks.
Maybe bring a pause
or two into the equation.

Why do I feel
as though I’m always
exceeding my station?
Even in the face of such
overwhelming obscurity!
Even as the air packs
densely in the lungs.

A few more rungs up
is where things get interesting.
Whereas we calculable ones…

Hang on, I’m inconsolable.
Don’t take my word for it.
When the happening finally snaps,
you’ll know all at once.

-r. miller

It’s Like That

Certain days, it comes down
to a single, stunning realization:
that the truth is foldable,
can be eaten with the hand.
In an ageless land
of fir trees and stately marble,
you wander fruitlessly.
The sun is ocher mold
and drips distractedly through
the cracks in the sky.
No wonder we’re so paranoid.
You cannot avoid this forever;
life has spoiled you too deeply
for putting forth that kind of effort.
Laying blankly at the end of the page,
a sluggish rage begins to stir…

-r. miller

Certain Implications

Bubblegum hysteria is sweeping
the nation’s dusty corners.
Forlorn and accident-prone,
we accept with glee.
This carries… Certain implications.
Ones we lack the strength
or readiness to name.
When the going gets tough,
the tough get sleepy.
We used to be tough,
so they tell me.
But this too carries…

-r. miller

Over-romanticized

At increasing speeds, the whispers
of an over-romanticized past
come blasting through the gaps
in our minor sense of well-being.

A sensible rudeness overcomes,
oversees what was meant to be
left strictly to its own
parenthetical devices.

Very soon, very casually, our vices
germinate, upending the landscape
and its genial, inoffensive mood
so profoundly, it’s almost picturesque.

-r. miller

Dry Run

It’s high time for a dry run.
Why don’t we get on with the sun?
In spite of personality crises
and crass remarks, are we not
ideologically aligned?

Suspicion falls upon the wobbly plain,
where all roads seem to undulate.

We germinate correctly,
the way we were taught,
caught up in ceaseless cycles
of thirst and shame.
They had a name for us once – that being…

It won’t matter come dusk,
when waning light drives us
back into obscurity, and our tongues
begin withering.

-r. miller

Sunset Over Bumfuck

Okay, okay…
We’ve died enough already.

Steady yourself, evening.
Prolong your dreadful glow.

At least until
a rational conclusion may be drawn.

Are we not drowning sufficiently
in your languorous exhalations?

Even after excessive preparations,
we petty ones remain dumbstruck

by the touch of your cooling finger.
Therefore, allow us

several more clicks of our eyes,
several more moments of your presence,

so that if we must indeed dream,
we dream primarily of you.

-r. miller

On Red

Break it down, once over,
more and more discreetly.
Again with the discount spree,
she chimes, keeping
her business sense in check.
We belong to the Garden Party,
and our manners mystify.
Puke it all on red.
I am not my diagnosis.
New revolutions will
take place as time allows.
Communications may vary.

-r. miller

The Process

At times, the blood
seems to thicken.
Quickening the blooms
that eat up the daylight
with aromatic mouths.
Could we be so bold
as to hold a candle
to the process, the progress
would twist beneath our gaze.
The accelerationists are at it again.
Not to not be a bother, but…
At times the blood
seems to be screaming.
And in its sleep no less.

-r. miller