8.16.17

Standard

Shunting the bright
romantic tangles thrall
the homebody and its plight
moves slightly through the all

-r. miller

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Hangover

Standard

Quivering piles of hurt feelings
(No incentive)
A vast and fatal glitch
(No incentive)
Rotten matter, explosives
(No incentive)
Slow motion straining of the neck
(No incentive)
Dead whispers ranged upon anemic lips
(No incentive)
Bursts of rust and hyperbole
(No incentive)
Moonlight withered, cold, despondent
(No incentive)
The force of delirium intensified
(No incentive)

-r. miller

8.5.19

Standard

I appreciate the sweeping gesture,
the golden tone of truth coating all
with a violent sheen.
When the town reveals its frightful mien,

who among us won’t be caught
in the  dark fact of its gaze?
It’s all one dispiriting phrase
after another in this treatise,

nothing to invigorate the senses
and our sense for them.
Hate to break up the phenomenology,
but you’ve gone numb in the extremities.

So young, too; a great shame indeed.
The body’s broken lexicon burns
quite easily, no fuss,
in the flames the body kindles.

-r. miller

8.2.19

Standard

Go ahead with the varnishing act.
Just don’t tell anyone
I brought us to this.
I don’t have the stomach anymore,
nor a firm grasp of my favorite things.
I’m the least romantic
of the revelers here assembled,
but don’t let that keep you
from making advances.
Heaven is a sick bag after all.

-r. miller

7.31.19

Standard

I hadn’t said what
others accused me of saying.
They’d only barely been paying
any attention, the cheapskates,
and besides, I had a lump
in my throat that day
the size of a small continent.
Trust me, nothing was said.
But from that nothing emerged
an incandescent “Fuck you,”
and it took up residence
in the middle of the midnight sky.
Utterly resplendent,
bathing pleb and patrician alike
in its cool, crystalline glow…

-r. miller

7.25.19

Standard

Don’t talk to me
about the weather.
With the foreground
growing denser,
with my eyelashes
growing thicker,
it could be poorly timed.
The tree climbed
once too often
soon sinks back
into its roots.
My blood shoots
lazily through vein.
Some day,
a plainer picture
of our routine
will supplant this ornate one
running amok
with its boring flourishes.
Entertaining though it may be,
this thought
barely weighs a thing.

-r. miller