Lucky Leaf

Motoring mayhem in the clubhouse.
For the record, I’m soused beyond belief.

The grief I bear is a lucky leaf.
A bracketed stupor. A shimmying shit stain.

With a bane in my briefs
I seek relief in the porcelain hands

of a blue haired belle
who lives inside of my bed.

-r. miller

The Virtuous

The virtuous are satisfied with their lot.
They don’t talk about it unless prompted,
and few ever prompt them.
Pompous allegories enfold them.
Dark dirges assemble at their feet.
They inhale sweetness
through their marshy mouths
and exhale turbulence.
Their arms are succulent tendrils
weaving through the damp despairing air
that ensnares the rest of us in apathy.
The virtuous will be the death of me.

-r. miller


Spring is here
disguised as a broken old man
wearing a cloak of rain.
Numberless voices strain
to make themselves heard
over the growling of traffic.
Tonight, my mind
is a swirl of apathetic fumes,
and the poems I swore I’d write
are serving time
in my heart’s
aging penitentiary.

-r. miller

It’s a Gamble

What to do about
all these sharks on the turnpike?
I’ve got the dead microphone blues again.
Clues to a kink. The viscous aurora
drinks its own solitude
from a crude cup
fashioned from fossil.
Oscillating fans stand at attention.
Redemption is for those
who follow the way of the freak.
Peak shopping hours.
I scour for peace
in the pumpernickel hills.
I come up instead
with ten thousand oil spills
and a sack full of dice.

-r. miller

In Two

Stomaching a breeze of breathing,
barricades intact, I make a pact
with the puncture wounds
adorning the night.

Tight fisted sisters, wailing wisps,
a lisp for your yearning
to do with as you deem fit.
The comeuppance we sought

turned up three weeks late
in a wicker basket, writhing.
The writing on your eyelids
melted into mesmeric goo.

As I cope with hope
and shoes full of mush,
your lush and lusty gaze
breaks my brain in two.

-r. miller