Images strain to make
themselves seen.
From the world’s jellied spleen,

a doubt erupts
and abruptly engages
your fatigued hindsight.

It was never alright,
the night and its
configurations of stars.

Now, you’ve gone
too far into the wilds,
miles of uncut brush

between you
and what you thought
was a destination.

-r. miller

Under Consideration

A fragrance.
A fragment.
A fragility inherent in the human experience.
The first phase of the experiment.
What was meant by progress.
Transgressive in approach.
Reproach came swiftly as a cataract.
When at last catastrophe strikes.
Proper apostrophe placement.
Testing the waters, in a manner of speaking.
Their banners adorned the air in careful array.
Not this day, but the next.
Context clues.
The lively hues of sunrise.
Morning wood.
As good as it gets.
As good or better.
Lately the winters have been wetter than in previous years.
Irreparable damage to the vocal chords.

-r. miller

Gazing Through a Smashed Stained-Glass Window

Mirror broken glass mishmash
the architecture of divine providence

the provinces burn
with the anger of cathedrals

catechism                       catheters

a great schism upsets the prison ideology

idle wanderings
and idle hands

in the hands of the mercenary

his feet blackened
by the rubble he’s stepped through and steeped

strips of rubbish rub glands
across horrid hearts

but where language fails
the world fails

fleet fragments of forward progress
the agenda is brackish
dripping from the mouths of rivers
which are only rivers
while the oceans are forgiveness

-r. miller

Looking Back

Something tells me
I’m supposed to be shocked:
taking stock of what I’ve given up,
in how I’ve given in,
how I’ve driven myself off
the dusty road into an even dustier ravine.
Something tells me it’s obscene,
but this seems an understatement.

I’ve an engagement
with the limpid passions
passing like scribbles overhead,
those dribbles of colored clouds
that blend in-and-out of one another.
Another spectacle smothered
by the open palm
of disenchantment.

-r. miller


What just came blundering
through the door
was a fiery uncertainty.

May as well take
the remainder of the habitat.
Out of habit, or out of general ennui,

we let the flames keep at it.
It’s just our way
of handling situations.

I’ve these apprehensions,
random samplings
of a tension toiling

underneath my skin.
But they come and go
like holidays…

-r. miller

A Quick Sonnet

The feeling is fractioned.
No one ever gains traction
in this weather. Strange
rumblings from the nether
regions and an ever deepening sky.
They called us the creeps of conscience,
but never asked for our names,
never endeavored to understand our aims.
The air is stacked with moot points
and refuted claims.
There’s the fountainhead, teeming
with dead ecstasies, its surface murky.
So this is what we’ve been
working toward?

-r. miller

Culinary School

My fingers, splayed
and separated, touch
the splendid dust
of fortune before bidding
the scene adieu.

Clumsy, but with a hint
of panache, lightly spiced
for the more daring palates.

An overbearing spread
can deaden the senses.

Blurred lenses
and calluses thick as cinder blocks.

Here’s a thought –
swallow the world
with a spoonful of malice,
then count backwards
from a hundred and touch
your lips to the chalice of indifference
to prevent an eruption of vomit.

The subtle corruption
of everyday will lacerate
your gullet anyway,
so there’s no need
to exacerbate the situation.

Marginal incarceration
of mistakes, shaken and baked
with cactus husks,
staked to the grill of a Hummer
and steamed with exhaust –

recipe for a lost generation.

-r. miller