Only Yesterday

Not that we’re looking into it,
but where have all the cowboys gone?
Seems like only yesterday…

You were putting on rubbers
behind the dusty partition
when the fame got to you,
stuffed your nostrils full of tissue,
and delivered a knockout blow
for good measure. We lost a grip
on our treasure after that, fell flat
when it came time to deliver
a knockout blow of our own.

I’m but a humble garage surfer today,
risk analyst tomorrow.
Time goes all in for a soaking.
The bag of loose ends, croaking
in the twilight. What might we learn
were we to scour its mythic bottom?
You’ll have to take it up with management.
As for the grievances streaming
through the exhibition, they’ll settle down
by the emergency exits, whimpering.

-r. miller

Daytime Sonnet

Your replacement hypothesis
just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny, champ.
I mean, the harder you clamp down…
Wait, what was my point again?

We’ve just barely touched grass here.
Seeing past the excesses, abscesses,
what have you, it all looks dimmer
than at first guaranteed.

Greed is what we aim for,
the most prominent of shortcomings.
All in all out castration!
Demand something less sinister, maybe.

I’ll meet you at the shore, or in dreams.
Wherever your luster drives you.

-r. miller


I’m not quite pickled enough
for the presidency.
Get my name out of your mouths, please.
Why is it I always wake up on my knees,
with the blazing scenery
not yet fleshed out?
Good question.
I have an even better answer,
but it’s obvious your jelly ears
can’t handle it.

-r. miller


Moody is the monster
whose unwieldy balls are brains.
Its distress claims many,
who are also broken, used-up,
and alone. It grows
and grows fat in a climate
of vicious steaming angst.
And yet this selfsame climate
demands too much of this our monster,
moody with the weight
of its dangling brains.
See how sluggishly it moves?
How languorously it loafs
beneath the scarlet sun?
Poor old moody monster,
what a state you’re in!
What a mess you have become!
Lie still, you overabundant beast,
lie still, that you may finally taste
the sweetness of your dying breath.

-r. miller


Calling all chimeras.
All’s not well in the hills,
the forests, the streets.
The myriad fruits and meats
of our grander schemes
have spoiled in the heat of passion.
And I’m still not up on the latest fashion.
I’ve got ears where my eyes should be
and I sing through my fingers.
All day the thought lingers
in the lotus patch where
it drowses with distinction,
untroubled by its imminent extinction
or the ill-mannered winds
that will carry its corpse away.
The vanguard is coming
with their sinister scalpels
and devious designs, so what am I,
the perpetual gadfly, to do?
The only way out is through.
What matters is what
persistence ruptures.

-r. miller

The Fall

Time to get your wellness on,
whippersnapper. Do it dapper
or not at all.
Let us hasten the fall of man
with our moody calculations,
see where it gets us.
We can work out later
whether it’s where we want to be.

-r. miller

What Ghoulish Light

How shall you move
with your legs encased
in what ghoulish light
breaks the peace?

I can sense a limit
closing in, imposing itself,
distributing itself in equal parts
through the space a body occupies.

This limit is ungovernable,
yet seeks to govern, unquenchable,
yet seeks to quench.

Overrun it we must
with our own ungovernable spirit,
our own unquenchable drive.

-r. miller


We’re just one dinner party
away from upheaval.
Of all the evil in the world,
we are its most triumphant representatives.
Cool out, cuties, with your lips full of yesterdays.
Daze out in a haze of contradiction
and free your breath from linearity’s demands.
We can be cruel sometimes, sure,
but also fun and utterly fab.
We scuttle crabwise
towards the bloated heart of modernity.
Now Unreal City, soaking in its wet ocher fog,
wants to throw hands. Well, alright then,
we’ve got more than our share.
And the best part is, we know better
than to play fair.

-r. miller


Cool thwarts my logic, eh whisperer?
The patchouli warlord bristles.

My suggestion is the only suggestion
you’ll ever need again.

It’s pronounced old yellow.
More uprisings to quell inside.

Just keep on smoking.
Borderline creativity bruises

more lastingly, of course.
Hence the hesitancy.

-r. miller


I’d like to get feisty for a minute.
Nobody panic. Or better yet,
everybody. How many licks
does it take? Recent studies suggest
the question is misleading, since
we’re assuming all it takes is licks.
As always, this sticks in your craw,
your gullet, your persona.
Later on, quit askin’.
What flavor are we havin’?
I mean, the medicine
always lingers on the tongue,
like we don’t want. I want you
to be what lingers on my tongue,
o my passionate angel,
o my supervisor!
She can engulf me any day.
Anyway, let’s say hey,
and maybe make the day
no longer seem untenable.

-r. miller