Good Luck With That

I’m guessing the division is unsatisfying.
The undistinguished whatever nags
from behind a gathering storm.
His tsk is eternal.
Unluckily enough, I’m beset on all sides
by crass emojis, sinews
unable to replicate, duress on course.
The main thing is compunction,
humming it up with the demonic.
Trembling aloud
the worst of several indiscretions
that so impress our generation’s battered countenance,
we take to the air, the field, the crosswalk.
Casual Friday won’t ever be the same.

-r. miller

In Deep

Go ahead
and crimp those remnants.
We find whatever
never-sought conclusions
we deserve at the end
of a long memory about fields
and ancient stonework.

A cataclysm is underway.
Just say you want
the contents of your head
shifted up a bit, sifted through
slightly rusted mesh
so as to impart flavor.
How are we proceeding today?

Confetti canyons stand between us,
and all New Year’s resolutions
take up arms. But
this is merely one part
of the perception.
The clattering in the eyes.

-r. miller

By the Throat

They sit with their heads
draped o’er their shoulders,
fingering new territories.
Such figurative luxury
that only the craven are permitted.
Meanwhile, I’ve bucked
all managerial tendencies.

Funny enough to observe
the myriad leavings and comings
filling the vacant plane.
They dribble their hearts’ content
where the lines intersect,
murmuring “What a fine thing.”

In winter’s atrophied apparatus,
the proud and good are made sick,
as a swarming white hate
learns to function as sky.
Gasoline pools at the surface
of the great revenue stream,
asking for a light.
Then it seems we must take flight,
by the throat if necessary,
and force down all the strange
new cocktails we’ve been practicing.

-r. miller

Sure is Something

More damage than expected,
but considering all things,
we’re less maudlin about it than we oughtta be.
Still, what strange duress.

The weary eye contains
the disco of a dying age.
Thus the denizens of this haunted place
rage rage against the drooping of the beat.
Now get lost in my bones.

I was an upstanding citizen in my heyday.
A pulse for every finger,
a figure worth drawing.
Of course, the wall of wavering hands
shot up out of the nothing my passions made,
and I stayed on the line
until the dial tone sounded itself into obsolescence.

Adolescence is a mighty fine tragedy,
wouldn’t you agree?
We still can’t get our gaze out
from underneath it.

-r. miller

New Year, New Me?

What is there left to dislike?
Thus uninspiration takes its toll,
bigger and better than the last time,
before shoving baby beneath the bathwater.
Winter disrobes slowly,
revealing a slightly less ghastly sight
than we had thought.
Circumstance chimes insistently.

Much dancing and feasting is required.
Tongue-tied, I’ve learned to let each word
fall where it may.
Six times a day I check my reflection
for signs of rejuvenation,
though to my immense dismay,
it’s looking as withered and destitute as ever.

Maybe if we took a vacuum to the ruins,
tidied up a bit, some long lost radiance
could be recovered.
Bold of you to assume
there was ever radiance to be lost.

-r. miller

French Exit

What vague wilderness we inhabit.
Uninhibited, an agenda works
its tendrils through the murk,
hungry for the feel of us.

Therefore, blend we
our bodies with the trembling fog,
that we remain untroubled
and untouched.

-r. miller

Upon Reflection

The window was formed
a blessed thing
out of sight and mind.
We return in kind
this wisdom of the glass,

Simply stunning in our Sunday.
Legions we seek.

Warmth emanating from the fingers.
So the weekend fits
inside cupped hands,
tremors, quick flits of eye.
Conscious visitation so resolved,
drifting persona to persona.

-r. miller


Dead set. Dead center.
The center distresses,
the wayside wavers.

You seriously mean to ask
for a raise? In this climate?
Just how do you stomach it?
Innocent protector of all that has been,
show your answers to your neighbor.

Now we instigate with persuasion,
sullen as a rock, punch-drunk
eyes quivering.

-r. miller

We in the Know

Go on and lick the message
in the meaty sickness, lovely chatterbox.
Lonely withstands each and every
nose boop with affliction.
My circumstances dictate
what radiance fucks me.
Only that and a platter of centuries.

See these edgelord centurions
mustering their weepy hands
in the winterlong musk
and you have what we in the know
call pavement fatigue. Go figure.

Maybe let’s not excite
our streamer-brained pheromones
more than we should, but we kinda should.
I’ve already cashed
that salacious check, lovely chatterbox.

I serpentine my way through media weeds
in quest of chainsmoking pixel acrobats.
But now, feel the ground getting warmer.
The walls getting weirder.
The friction beginning to chew.

-r. miller

A Kiss Hidden Somewhere

Time to crank up the metaphor machine.
My back got busted at the border
with a kilo of coke, six pounds of weed,
12 tabs of LSD, and a whole
shitload of amphetamines.
Amphetamine, amphetayours.

Leave it to whiplash to lack
what the kids these days are calling snooze.
Doozy ass dipshit rankles
crinkle bunnies in hop.
So goeth the headlines.
And if you think for one gun-fondling second
that I won’t blow my cover before you,
well buckeroo, my pants off to ya.

There’s a kiss hidden somewhere
in this collage, and only the best
trained murmurers possess just the right lips
to locate it. Strap a raw steak
to my cerebral cortex.
I’ll go without saying.

-r. miller