9/29/17

Standard

A presumption of crush
we intersect with diligence,
figures uplifted, fracture holding.
Too up in arms for a fragrant lust.
Mistrust assuming the posture
of an accident in progress.
Some time where no synapse speaks
of its own power to construct.
Us we form by reticence, by
fingers hot with touch.
Deja vu everywhere,
it sits in kindness and fat
and spares naught.
The look… Unfolding itself,
uprooting all calculation
with a threatening sense of purpose.

-r. miller

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9/27/17

Standard

Zero to a fault,
caustic shift to page.
Bluster frail delight
in pondering grave.
One service guts the savior, please,
but in disappointed time.
A potent sense of dislocation.
This makes a new this
by rhythmic fodder.
However how we disinter.
Next disintegration
likens what the holding
signs a sleight. There,
alight upon a verbal tension,
I loosen my urge
and folly up the sentence.

-r. miller

9/20/17

Standard

a distinct aversion
to blank we in
absolving backlash
dismantled crux
absorbing the thoroughfare
for want must
needs impertinence
of gesture web
though altogether
signed off
on the negation
so it came by cutting
insofar as rut befits
the tender equipage
of what lust permits
in my palm the sighs

-r. miller

nihilism of the deed

Standard

In lurching
and strange cadence,
the wake up fizzles.
Slow and sympathetic.
A palpable decline
clouds the glass.
The wires in his eyes,
fermenting.
The chords in his
fingertips…
Dry, decrepit words
collapse in his throat
and the ruins melt
into a buttery sea
of mucous.
The camera
shifts its focus
to a darkened corner
of the room, where
a scarlet silhouette
has soaked
into the carpet….

-r. miller

cotton mouth

Standard

I gave it to you
in blisters, rosy
and divine.
How sadly a life
hangs by its own devices…
A moment’s specialness
ruthlessly divides.
Without imagination.
The foreground of error.
We tune our hands
to what we weave.
By insecurity thrust
headfirst into gulfs
of burning sand.
With a harshness
of throat no balm
could soothe.
Our legacy is thirst.

-r. miller

9/6/17

Standard

Waste disorder lyrically in omission.
But a practical revision articulates
that which bombards with stillness.
No frills deconstruction,
you underscore with patience.
Up against dictation
break a dissonant chord.
Here and there a word
wracked by entitlement.
The garden of gross misfortune.
So wait, I have to importune
the power grubbers
with my questioning demands.
Comprehensive fear of nearness,
our habitation.
Mind the bones, not the spasms.
On the cusp in cuffs of fire.
Might this emphasize retreat?

-r. miller