Vacationers

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So much grime and filth filling
up the bitter receptacle of a life!
My wife and I never venture

to these darker reaches.
She has a lurking fear of leeches,
and me, I’d rather stick to the sun-

filled beaches where the waves
claim everything unfavorable,
and the sand feels just like plush.

-r. miller

Deep shit

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Fuck sleep schedules.
The motor that moves your eyes
has gone into panic mode,
leaving you transfixed on the freaked light
leaking through the cracks in the wall.
It’s crimson calling card will do a number on you.
Time for some routine maintenance.
Two spliffs and a can of battery acid later
and your head still hasn’t grown heavier,
just quietly fogged over with nostalgia
and fragmentary phrases. Your days
as an agitpropper are through.
Everyone has a price
and they hurt to look at.
Something implies that you’ve
been living off of rat salad too long,
and it’s the something you’re growing into.
Life isn’t always a parade, you know.
What doesn’t kill you
will make you wish it would have.

-r. miller

Have you met my friend, Molly?

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Baby’s swallowed the birthday tonic.
The light, evenly distributed
throughout the chamber, shifts
from orange to green back to orange
and warms the insincere hearts resting in rows.
We braved blinding snows
and comfort to be with you this evening.
It was only much later that we paid our dues.
And the timing is wrong somehow,
just ever so slightly,
a strange off-putting rhythm
that leaves its mark in your gut.
Anything but intoxicating.
All signs point to a grating comedown.

-r. miller

Generation why

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Not one flyspeck…
The wreck hit home,
a force beyond force.
Ephemeral things
lost in translation.
We stick it out and suck up
the spoiled nectars of a season.
Reason shimmies.
Clouds erupt.
We swim against
pop culture currents
and the sins of our parents.
Poignant hiccups
on the planisphere.

-r. miller

A very specific itch

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One foot in the slush,
the other in a paratactic trap.
The pliant lines turning to sap.
It just happens that way.
Isn’t that what the others say?
I’ve been busy making my way
ahead of the drips.
Always slips, never slides.
This song will ride your heart strings
and give you a very specific itch.
All right, I’m through bitching I guess,
but what about the groaning
in the next room? They
make seething look like a cinch,
they really do. Just wait
until their true genius bursts.

-r. miller

Squalls and squalor

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My all in ruins,
my inner sailing in a lonely space.
Will I ever turn to face
the body’s burnt necessity? Here,
there are squalls and squalor,
which I’m much too squeamish for.
The door is open,
the lock is broken.
Everything I’ve spoken poorly of
swarms the room and dooms me
to repeat the same several thoughts
I’ve ever had.
Born under a bad sign.
A dazzling gloom, commencing.

-r. miller

Rondeau (The Brazen Beard)

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The brazen beard that lurks in here
instills in us a profound fear.
We shake and swoon and shit our pants,
a graceless and most awkward dance
‘neath the o’erbearing chandelier.

What I would give for just a beer!
This room is now in ruins, dear,
and all because of that knave, Chance,
the brazen beard.

Have you e’er seen a scene so queer?
So crooked and devoid of cheer?
A hapless, hellish circumstance
we now are in. Fate’s wicked lance
has speared we two, such wretched drear,
the brazen beard!

-r. miller