These Intrusions

Just going through the motions,
mutations, whatever, one is arrested
by all the luxurious confusion pouring
through the mesh of everything.
Days pace, coping with their untenability.
The agitation crunches. Afterwards,

we can be assured of feasting
and enchanting trysts through honeyed meadows,
but for now? Sprained laughter, disjointed
tunes from childhood, groping their way
towards the center of attention.

These intrusions have a certain way about them.
I mean, if they’re all getting feisty,
why shouldn’t we?

-r. miller

Less of a Bummer

Getting through the
going through it part, one is
reminded of one’s own
staying power.
Let this greasy
engorged flower
stand for reason,
or something of that ilk.
Let this tumbler of dry milk
sustain me for
a whole summer.
I promise, I’ll be less
of a bummer in the
next scene,
once the montage phase has ended
(If indeed it does
And if it doesn’t, well,
I’ll stop it
dead in its tricks.

-r. miller

Just So You Know

It’s surfaces all the way down.
Cold ones, wet ones, starry ones,
ones that blow the mind
not expecting anything in return.
How they multiply/divide
is neither our concern
nor theirs, and if at times
they add up to nothing,
that’s all there is to say.
But go on, run your stale fingers
across them, tell me
you don’t feel something:
The drag of ecstasy.
The whirl of melancholy.
The thrill of apathy.
The pop of epiphany.

-r. miller

It’s Automatic

A dearth
endowed and downy
imparts a frowny
Weeding the junk,
we jettison all
tint and tincture,
raise chalets
of girth
and grit
and finance.
no longer suits,
only underscores.
How this poor waltz
red and dripping
over droops of nod,
and readies able us
as sustenance
for a gruesome
gluey god.

-r. miller


It’s a moving thing,
if you can believe it.
Jazz up the radiation, my good sir,
and watch your ecstasy fold.
Got a good flow in this.
Pulsing with whispers
the lips destabilize,
we fling our Selves from cliffs
of pure verbiage
into the verdure below.
Here, there’s enough space
for everyone to realize
their wilderness.

-r. miller

Not Another Birthday

To be honest, I’m barely able
to chew these new verbs
the kids are coming up with.
Barely able to use my hands as hands,
to walk upright as intended.
The old ticker is a bit distended, I’m sure,
from all the force-fed notions of romance
that come on like empty calories.

All in all, it’s been
an unproductive use of 36 years,
and if I’m lucky, I’ll get
another 36 to squander on rough poetry,
long drives to nowhere after midnight,
and triumphant pissing in the stream.
This is the dream I’ve always had
but never wanted,
and waking, at this stage, is thoroughly

-r. miller

Just Power Through It

At 2:16 I wonder
if I will get a poem down in time.

At 2:17 I wonder
the same thing, and also
if I’ll survive just one more shift
before the seven nights of revelry
that most definitely
await me.

Depends on what you mean by revelry.
Depends on what you mean by night.

I am an honorable man, you see.
As such, I am honor-bound
to transcribe exactly
what I’m thinking
as I’m thinking it.
If I’m lucky, I’ll even be
able to transcribe
what I’m not thinking,
which is the goal,

to pull words from the slop
and make brand new thoughts
by my own pensive hand.

-r. miller


The holy crow in me dines on lullabies
The holy crow in me views the world thru shutter shades
The holy crow in me speaks a language none can see
The holy crow in me traces portraits of ghosts with its flight

The holy crow in me has a keen distaste for clouds
The holy crow in me doesn’t fuck with high seriousness
The holy crow in me smashes theory into praxis
The holy crow in me lubricates its engine with right-wing tears

The holy crow in me isn’t afraid of a little spice
The holy crow in me is top/vers
The holy crow in me smokes the pollen of the gods
The holy crow in me warms its feathers by the heat of the moon

The holy crow in me engages in destructive creativity
The holy crow in me recognizes therapists as agents of the bourgeoisie
The holy crow in me takes in the scope of human folly
The holy crow in me is most at home in madness

-r. miller

Attention, Seekers…

Something tells me
we’re in for quite an excursion.
Not to regurgitate lightly, but…
The heart remains in store.

No more blind picnicking for us,
beautiful comrades and folks of all stripes.
Only burgeoning and breaking out
and the bolstering of ranks.

For real though, those cranks controlling the tiers
ought to reconsider
their distinctions, proclamations, exaltations,
and so on.

We learn now what we’ve always known.
We cannot outpace emergency.
Come up lively, lovelies,
and turn the white lies rust.

-r. miller