Simply Foreplay

All eyes on the grift,
gaining minute by minute.
This is simply foreplay.

The kids these days,
they’re so misty, so unrestricted.

Repress these faculties by numbers,
by worries, by rage.
A curious, most dissonant age
looms beyond the city’s shadow.

Seems our wiry mouths
are due for a straightening.
Lest we swerve
too far from the mainstream,
lest we dream too hard
or step too light.

Some fresh attire
or new skin, perhaps,
for the rabid days ahead.

-r. miller


What is it that these wounds can tell?
What words, what songs
emerge from blood and bone?
We come together or we come alone

to raise dull pennants on gray evenings,
buzzing lips and suttering eyes,
abstracted in the afterglow.
Some other significance is wanting,

and we move with purpose
through ravenous gloom.
What is it that these wounds can tell?
Something untranslatable.

-r. miller


If the drink lifts,
then let it lift.
If the rift darkens,
if the voices unravel,
then let us travel light
to new points of departure.
The curvature of language,
so delicate and weaponized,
this we shall measure
with our breath.
Ongoing infinite death
beneath a shallow sunless sky,
such is all we can afford.
A word stripped
of pomp and circumstance
glows weakly behind the eye.
To this,
we lift a drink.

-r. miller


The houses weeping from their gutters
can confirm this.
We carried a kind of wonder to term
before dropping it in the middle
of the cul-de-sac our dreaming had sketched out.

Something illegible and drastic
had been etched upon the asphalt,
but what was it trying to say?
That each day
we believe less in our backs, perhaps,
as the stiffness and pain accumulate
and remain at their leisure.
That a sizeable portion of humanity
is a shifting morass
of blundering forgetful thumbsuckers
whose tongues yearn for a big enough boot.

All over you see the soot and pollution
begin their tragic ascent
towards the whispering clouds.
Things are only going to get heavier from here.

-r. miller


It remains to be
of pure language,
deftly weaving
through inner glow.


we are at risk.
Brisk autumn air,
a monolith,
gaining ground.

The myth
these unruly throats.
A mood
of casual distrust

-r. miller

A Durable Duress

Bleeding from the edges,
the instant intensifies.
Descriptions of a durable duress
intrude from somewhere out of favor.
There’s something off about the flavor,
the way it slides so easily off the tongue
and seeps into the corners of the mouth.

We won’t be flying south this winter,
but this no longer needs to be said.

This half-dead enterprise will chide us
into becoming our worst interpretations.
Tonight we will feed upon the cold.

-r. miller


The content whispers to you
from out of a dream.
Onward, brave pigeon-holer,
to the gleaming expanse
of some distant nether.

Something about the weather today…
It makes the body want to collapse,
all wet and degraded.

We’ll dirge about it later.
For now, the temporary lift of green
is less sufficient, but
it loosens up the language — somewhat.

-r. miller

Brain Fog

The hours accrued
scraping pollen from the tongue.
They get a little heavier so late in the year.
What fictions dear to me
will I pick at with these rusted fingers?

Galvanize the shower singers,
parade through graveyards
with stiff necks and wrecked throats.

My future wears many coats,
particolored and flimsy.
This here stone flute
produces insufficient sound
to cut through the deepfake chatter.
Supported by sadder sinews,
these bones have grown ashamed.

-r. miller

Some Thoughts

Go on with sheer
stupefying amazement, you’ll see.
This rent-controlled sunset
gathers all under its auspices
and spices up the surroundings
with tummy-rending flair.
As it stands, we pair nicely with the sheen.
The blue overturning green,
the furies’ silence… It all makes sense.
Hop on my back
and be a part of me forever.
And hey, sign me up
for the next third course.
Just don’t disperse me.

-r. miller

Nothing You Haven’t Seen Before

Come hither
and knead the dark with me.
Arriving barehanded
at the nexus between point and click,
a new dependency thrusts its bulk upon us.
Truly no comfort for the weary
to be found in this jellied space.

They grind souls for fun,
to raise issues.
A trauma installed at the apex of the bounce
means to spoil your pretty face.
The whole soil washes over.

Have you even acknowledged
my overripe scream?
What if death is all that becomes us?
Seek more human light
for future disturbances to the civilized air.
For nothing
I will be there with my burdens,
dripping with song.

-r. miller