6.26.19

Whoever said too much heat?
Mangling sweet with lipstick on the gums.
The phrase in a flummox
beating its way into the wings.
Exposure to germs, all that
and kind of like the way singing
parches the throat.

I put the coat on in a huff.

Forcibly tough guy pranks
end in disassociation.
Only and after enervation
of reductive glare.

Pare me back or bicker, but quickly.
The jewelry itch done me again,
seemingly crabbed.

I don’t withstand much these days.
I don’t do ruffled feathers,
kindly carnage, sifting whispers.
Have one vague perturbed
precept radio flow.

Come on predestination
and express this as a farce.

-r. miller

Have you met my friend, Molly?

Baby’s swallowed the birthday tonic.
The light, evenly distributed
throughout the chamber, shifts
from orange to green back to orange
and warms the insincere hearts resting in rows.
We braved blinding snows
and comfort to be with you this evening.
It was only much later that we paid our dues.
And the timing is wrong somehow,
just ever so slightly,
a strange off-putting rhythm
that leaves its mark in your gut.
Anything but intoxicating.
All signs point to a grating comedown.

-r. miller

Insta-Regret

What spectral shape has come to spread its shade
upon the sheets? Some buttered ghost which knows
its feelings from its form, a ghost who grows
in increments, who makes the morning fade.

A jaded song has wrecked the great charade
with arms of bitter frost. My evening slows
itself to drool but still outpaces prose,
and paling clouds have stormed the barricade.

For all of this, there’s still the peace which fights
to feast on graves. Its tender mouth will turn
my sleepless thoughts to wine. My pining lights,

frail sentinels, how soulfully you shine!
This line of text I’ve written, let it burn,
and come the sunrise, nothingness be mine.

-r. miller

Lukewarm Reception: A Sonnet

My lime-scented aria reached
only the first row of the auditorium.
It seems I’ve not succeeded
in making a point, if indeed a point
is what I’ve set out to make.
I can’t properly express myself
without a caffeine headache.
For once, I’d like to quake with relief,
with satisfaction, anything
other than the feeling which follows
a glorious fuck-up.
Silence, sweet sinewy silence,
tuck me under your arm,
and deliver me from disquiet!

-r. miller

A Quick Sonnet

The feeling is fractioned.
No one ever gains traction
in this weather. Strange
rumblings from the nether
regions and an ever deepening sky.
They called us the creeps of conscience,
but never asked for our names,
never endeavored to understand our aims.
The air is stacked with moot points
and refuted claims.
There’s the fountainhead, teeming
with dead ecstasies, its surface murky.
So this is what we’ve been
working toward?

-r. miller

Sonnet

Association is the key.
My knees are locked in pace.
No more pacing around
the corridor, no conjectures

left to settle. The humidity
strikes like nettles on my neck.
With only this one speck
of nourishment, I can flourish

in the finest fashion
with passion as my guide.
The tide is shifting.

The curtain, lifting. And sifting
through the soil, I’ll find
meaning in my spoiled roots.

-r. miller