8.15.18

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We define our Selves
as they suit us,
refine them
in the fires
of emotional baggage,
and when the flames
have dwindled
in addition
to our highest hopes,
we grope about the embers
for whatever’s
left to grasp.

-r. miller

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8.13.18

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Bring on
the great devouring slumber.
Look at us, how we lumber
along the sidewalk like colossi
afraid of their own shadows.
The heat endows
the situation with a certain symmetry,
a kind of grace, and were we gracious
enough to accept it all
without prejudice…
That’s for another day, I say.
And really, the way the months
just roll along however pleasantly,
there’s no denying
we’re losing our footing,
and sooner or later,
apt to get tripped up a bit,
entangled in the movement
of season into season.
No time like the present
I was always told, to set your reason
on a proper course.
No time like the present
to drown my voice in yours.

-r. miller

8.10.18

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Comfort breeds contempt
like nobody’s business.
That’s not why I’m bidding you
goodbye this gruesome day,
and I’d prefer not to talk about it,
so fuck you and warmest regards.
I’ve got to get my splinters in order,
check the thermostat
for signs of infection.
This ballpoint pen is a rather
invasive truth to be coping with
so early in the afternoon, I think, so
with that, I cast it to the fires
my dislocated youth left burning.
Only, the flames will be weak blue
when they peak, and my former truths
like so much diffused smoke.

-r. miller

8.8.18

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O! the special smells,
frivolous colors of my half-steeped life.
With candor do I approach
the storm’s winking eye.

From here on out – fresh hell,
hand grenades, and a mouthful
of empty threats. I hold a promise
like a pose, beneath a clutter of sky.

My machismo’s started bleeding
from all angles, cooled to a crisp
beneath a blue emboldened star.
“How much farther?”

shouts the patience I never knew I had,
“until the next and final rest stop?”

-r. miller

8.6.18

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Tonight, the normalcy heist
is underway. A cohesive city
sheepishly sways to the chamber music
pouring from the outmoded phonograph
buried in the Cosmos’ skull.
How grand and yet – how garish.
To cherish this is to invite the forces
of decay into our midst. At wit’s end,
you redact your name from salvation’s ledger
and enjoy a miniature freak-out
in the presence of friends.
Our way of life pays dividends, you know.
Show some class, for once,
and add that to the ever-lengthening list
of things that will eventually
come back to bite you in the ass.

-r. miller

8.1.18

Standard

I’ve really stepped in it this time.
The same cold mouths
issue the same cold lines
about repentance.
Syringes are duly divested
of their serums and I hate to say it,
but it looks like rain.
How much pain do you have to endure
before you can call this “Life?”
I’ve turned over
far too many new leaves.
What I want is a little romance,
but without the frills.
The fast approaching wave
possesses a magnitude
I’m not sure I can withstand.
I’ll be just fine, I tell myself, just fine.
Once I’ve handed in my two-weeks’ notice.

-r. miller