12.24.18

Standard

Up hops sky the saffron heap,
rudimentary knowing of all get out.
Somewhere home dissipates
in the reflecting, sturdy

the rain tower deflecting collectivity.
Sheepish, I decline.
Overhead warming asleepish
on the spine of caring.

Quiet and utterly, retrospect
discourse half-ass to heat.
Cue cold symptoms and crass repartee.
Winter sinks into unruly skin.

-r. miller

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12.19.18

Standard

Dusk drips from frozen sky
to drowsy earth.
Whose wasteland is this?
As a matter of fact, this matters
somewhat, but very little.
I keep my hands in my pockets
along with seven years of weariness
and the strange warmth
to which it adheres.
No one steers me wrong
without consent. As if my dented mind
had capacity left to conceive
of something like agency.
I don’t believe in discord
or disillusionment anymore
or in anything which could replace them.
Though the passion within me
is steadily diminishing,
my limbs haven’t stopped twitching,
as December grins on
and makes gray mud
of these poems.

-r. miller

12.17.18

Standard

They speak quietly
and wear their heads at half-mast.
Truly, a dark magic broods here.
Whistle a lame tune
as if to stave off its inner workings.
I am not my own self today
or any yesterday that still means anything.
Though they play for keeps
(not my concern), their fingers
loosen more easily mid-dirge
and whatever contents
their palms contained
come tumbling down
to our little plot of fried soil.
These we can distribute or decimate.
No allowance for nuance,
not in my bed, not with my character
convulsing intermittently
in the inclusivity matrix.
Twilight spreads lithe wires
to unsnare what remains of noon.
Privately, we start stuttering.

-r. miller

12.14.18

Standard

The half-legged triumph
spears coldly, we wind-weary dregs
off guard and off the rails, upon reflection.
Once discussed, the deflection disgraces.
A certain look about the faces
gone gray for but one December
appeals to my revelatory sense, assuredly.
We owe no penance, no patience.
Vapor steadily cloaks the passage.
Vocalize abruptly for satisfaction.
We find us in the end supremely heretical,
however sleep-deprived.
I’ve lived through this already, you know,
for more than just fun.

-r. miller

12.12.18

Standard

You know,
we could eat the cosmos
if we tried.
Click once for concord,
twice for overdraft.
There’s gum in my ear
from another century,
green in my lungs,
and a cool blaze
in the seat of passions
that I will stoke, stroke weightily,
until daze end.
But you disrobe
at your leisure
in a pink haze of instinct,
and the pleasure
this gives to me
is highly pressurized.

-r. miller