Let this avenging air carry
these signs to you
atop the winter’s brutal staircase.

We chase paper with our tongues
because the taste behooves us,
moves us as a song moves us,

or an earthquake. A shaking
commences in the nerves
and works its way to the skin,

weather bitten and caked
in lumps. I’ve no more stake
in you than I do

this lousy backwater town,
and yet your disinterested frown
entices me more than I’ll ever admit,

let alone celebrate.
Mania blooms, the camera zooms
in on the tumor turning

and churning beneath the streets.
We’ve much cleaning to do.

-r. miller

And Still More Tension…

In spread eagle formation,
a waiting valley drools
a spool of anticipation.

Soft reverberations,
rustles in the window glass,
movements passing faster

than chapters in a book,
and there’s the feeling
of your broken look

digging into my gut.
It’s rutting season
once again. You’ve found treason

in every corner, every wall,
every particular, but only
because you seek and expect it.

I should respect myself maybe,
and re-contextualize the results
of your education. Such an occasion

warrants a celestial cough.
Wipe the blood off of your smile.

-r. miller

The Roommate’s Lament

The air of this place is fucking with my chi, man. There’s got to be a plan, an arrangement to this disorderly seeming tenement that we just don’t see. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent, right? Whatever. This isn’t my war to fight. I’ve come unarmed anyway, which is why no harm will come to me. I only see things in fragments (or is it figments?) but you don’t need special specs to see the unearthly pigment of these fucking walls, or the way the halls constantly quarrel with the floors for the prime real estate of your attention. And how the late light of each wasted day evaporates against the window panes…

-r. miller


Restless leg syndrome.
The story drones on and on
and on until the vibrations
cease to reach the ear,

dull ride home interrupted
by a minefield whose
temperamental crop
nourishes only death.

-r. miller

4 AM Verse

My eyes are dragging,
my brain is sagging.
I’d rather be curling
up in a warm place,
not thinking
but dreaming,
not scheming
but wrapping myself
in the obsidian
waters of sleep.

-r. miller

Nothing to Offer

The old rot has returned.
As a haze dissipates,
a new hatred installs itself
within the watchtower

of your brain. We’ve got
to abstain from further
searching, this lurching
hemisphere has nothing

left to offer. Consider this
as you un-focus your eyes,
my live wire, on the dire modes
that now approach us

bearing crumpled banners,
indications of darker horizons.
Best now to stick
to the periphery

and fold our hands
as destiny unhinges
its wings and charges
the overcast sky like a cavalry.

-r. miller


We are disappearing.

We are disappearing
in disappointed strands,

hands over our mouths
and mouths over our heads,

here in the dead center of everything.

-r. miller