Descend, distill,
season of the virus
approach in measure.
As for we fold what treasure,
too distinct to name.
Pulling obvious blame
thru yr teeth.
Where’d I learn
to straddle like that?
Living together
in the background noise,
we molt and pop.
The remote control loosens.
Now that’s a wonder,
idyllic in its pants,
into and into
the sweatshop haze.
Isn’t the air
a vibrant enough thing?
And yet…

-r. miller



Listening intently, hazards
a-flash in downy dark,
stark peril pending.
Something about a lending
hand helping puts me on edge,
or so you say. This isn’t, after all,
a two-way street. As in,
my feet are capable of pointing
only in one direction,
and do so of their own volition.
A probable collision is enough
to bring anyone closer together.
Get back to me after I’ve had a chance
to pick the gravel out of my teeth.

-r. miller


Honestly, I’m far too pissed
to go on passing accusations
back and forth among these
rubbery NPC-type gawkers
who flick their tongues and go idle
at the first hint of provocation.

Recent evidence suggests that
whatever is in the water
distills the loftiest of passions
into hopeless blathering.
I’m really not the kind of person
who would take this in stride.

Honestly, I’m far too pissed
to post a warning on my forehead
about what not to do
when the overall hopelessness
of any given situation takes to the street
and assumes the right-of-way.

There isn’t anything quite like it.
The full moon dissolves in silver,
bequeathing us its bad habits.
Still no purpose to the process,
but if purpose is what you seek here,
any input is appreciated.

-r. miller


I hadn’t thought it through.
I hadn’t devoted quite enough attention
to the details as they drifted
through the space between dream and fever.

As the cream of morning rises
to a barren height, light breaks
like a dropped mirror.

Time to memorize the terrors
twisting ’round the gate.
Time to breathe the hatred
into waking. My only wish

is that the quaking in my eyes
subsides so that I can see
in still-life again.

-r. miller


The surface is all-too-plain,
though its sheen is disquieting.
Appropriate to some, reflecting
all that goes unforgiven.

So I amble aimless
through the wilderness
which grew out of my intention
to be other. I grasp willingly
at an idée fixe
bent on smothering me
in its assertions.

Disprove me, why don’t you.
Leave me to the rain’s
imprisoning stanza that teethes
greedily on the bare horizon
of doubt. Some things
turn out alright only after
they’ve collapsed upon us
and torrents of real pain
charge swiftly o’er the debris.

-r. miller


Lamentations, prefigured
disposition of wax
brain hollow revisited
assume no place
politicize the landfill
the havoc of weekend
merely a symptom
explicit and unexceptional
paraphrased departure
from subjectivity
led to blessed wreck
and peaceful disassembly

-r. miller


Within the dance of symbols,
intention presents itself.
As with anything,

we face an inward collapse.
In this fulgent, feral garden,
we clasp hands

with a void primordial.
Process this with pants down,
face up in a cloud of jargon.

-r. miller


Certain contrivances cannot,
under duress, sustain the structure
of this my private mythology.
Condemn them to the scrap heap,
so says intuition. History’s feeble tree
has yet to come to fruition, and
there are some who say it never will,
not in anyone’s meager lifetime.
Now that I’ve come untethered
from first principles,
once so self-evident they sparkled,
the colors of my personality are free
to become as rabid as I like.
That’s the kind of liberty
that money simply can’t buy.
Or rather, undermine.

-r. miller


Where I sleep has gradually
been subsumed in surly dreams.
Time now to vacuum up the dust
and lust that enhance my surface layer.
Time now to rally the disparate tones
into a coherent melody.
I need space and time to despise myself
without fear of retribution.
I arrived at this conclusion necessarily
by way of an unbroken chain of disillusion.
It played out less chaotically than I’d hoped,
but I’ve coped with worse.
You can hear it in my garish laughter.
You can feel it in my rusted gaze.

-r. miller


Scary grave things, and the like…
We have our moments, to be sure,
but assuredly, let’s face it,
we barely peak.
The way I speak
of what our speech portends
doesn’t need a lot of music,
which means that this all ends
without a melody to carry me
back where the pines tremble
beneath a clipped fingernail moon.
I can’t believe the slurry swoon
I have to undergo
just to get my bearings.
That thunder-blow
to my impulse for honesty
really did a number, didn’t it?
Not that I’m dumber, anyway,
disillusioned mostly, and maybe
disengaged. But this can be
assuaged with a little tender
resignation to the context,
the madness it implies,
and the choke-hold that comes next.

-r. miller