3.2.18

Within certain limits,
all the breakable stuff
that fills the space of a life
can be organized into a suburb.
Of course, my-word-against-yours
looms above like a sinister parasol.
This is where action and reaction
coincide after all, where the heart
becomes a carnivore, where seasons
wither drastically. Time to send
my integrity to the cleaners.
I’m feeling meaner and more
nebulous than ever, dizzy
with depth, et cetera.
My abstractions silently come
to the realization that they totally
lack substance. The running joke
I aspire to be will soon outpace me.

-r. miller

2.28.17

Step wantonly.
These little sprinklings of insight
sure do sting. It’s about time
we try punching in all directions
simultaneously.
All in all all at once.
Didn’t my last dunce cap
come with a tassel? Of course
that was before the miscreant mass
of bootlicking savants
stormed the castle
and told everybody to go home.
My home was behind
the petrified eye of my Self
reflected in the eye of a storm;
it was a long trudge, for sure,
and took up the better part
of my afternoon.
In the background, voices crowing,
oblivion bleeding through the seams…

-r. miller

Defeat

Grass strands through hands of glass,
the passing hours and the turning page.

In this age of scars, we confine
our wonder to the curb.

The blood sheets rattle the fire
and conspire to settle down to sleep.

For now, we keep promises.
But what promise will ever keep us?

cradled in the warble of the slivered sun
with running sinuses and cyanide lust.

The nearly neutered dead
offer their stares to the dark.

-r. miller

Too Old For This Shit

Hash in the gash, thrill in the gill.
The water will rear its head
and make asses out of all of us.

Noxious gasses are coming
from virtually everywhere,
everywhere we are anyway,

so it seems just as good a time as any
to make a game of seeing who pukes first.
Vomit in a metaphysical sense

is called nostalgia, and we get a new nostalgia
every 20 years, mostly to benefit
the younger generation who didn’t live

through whatever era we’re celebrating.
I remember the 90’s just fine on my own,
thank you, and those years were vastly different

from how they’re romanticized.
So it’s now they eyes of the universe
are falling on me, falling on you, falling

on the rancid ground we stand upon
because an eye has got to fall
like a rock in an ocean or at the very least,

like bird shit on a car windshield.
Both have equal significance,
which is something I don’t.

-r. miller

My Knees Go Weak

Like a loose lipped ship,
I slip discreetly in
and out of comas, commas
confirming that it’s okay
to take a breath.
Sometimes I ponder death.
My palms start to sweat
and my sinuses run a relay race,
my taste for victory diminishing
into shades of blue.
Yet when your truth
bleeds onto the paper of my soul,
a sweetness thick as wine
streams through my anatomy.
Part of me shoots flowers
from my fingertips,
another drifts along
your compassionate gaze.
Hazy, drunk and dizzy.
What’s left of me
is a cushion of solar dust.
It isn’t often I trust a person,
but when I do, it’s you,
and in your smile
is a row of doves
whose various loves
pour passionately
into the corpulent day.

-r. miller

Glad to Know That You Have My Back

So much so – memory becomes an implosion.

The tangle of murmurs
creeping through the air
like some punk kid out past curfew.
The tension, coiling like a fist,
until the uproar stored in the palm
could no longer be contained.
and when the tantrum let up,
it was a travesty of aesthetics.

Yeah, there was discourse,
theories, postulates, all concerning
the relation of body to politic,
and grandstanding,
and gasping, and passionate throes.
For all anyone knows,
it was an upheaval.
There was a certainty though,
a gleam in the eye of the hurricane.

I made a point to point it out.
Naturally, nobody cared.

And where were you exactly
when all of this was happening,
erupting as weeds
through cracks in the sidewalk?

Anywhere? Nowhere?

That was where I found myself anyway,
after the fallout, heaviness
strumming my tired head
with a hurt the size of a crater.

There’s an art to patience I guess,
but what’s patience really worth
when you end up waiting for nothing?

-r. miller

“Never Get Yr Hopes Up” Is My Rallying Cry

A spark or two of purity
cracking in the baffling glare
of hindsight – by rights,
this is what is due to me.
Or rather, some fragile vacancy.
The shifting blather banging
in my brain’s feeble helm
cements my dislocation,
and I arrive where expectation

burns out in a shouting match.
I’ve latched on to a few
too many expectations,
and the result is always the same.
Now, I have no one to blame
but myself. Pursuits
are drained with a strangling
purpose, so it goes.
So it goes, et cetera.

-r. miller

The Invention of a History

To stifle the advance of hands – 
fiction demonstrated the peeplehole, 
sugar cut with oblong typhoid. 
Hail pioneers! of a sounder version 
of humanity whose condition 
conditions a world into being. 
Product shares melt somberly, 
wicked drapery conspires the match stick 
strewn with gilt hair, decimal points, 
the invention of a history.
Bottomed out of generosity,
but over and still without knowing 
the glance whose color 
is the color of a thunder storm.

-r. miller

When the Feral Squeals

To run fault with splattered clues
inductive to the gain,
insect cartography of welts

and scabs. Collagen impluse
of the weary nodes laid out
across pearls, plunking heat

for dirigible through unsound method.
A trigger is in it for you
if there’s hurry to slake,

and a face, a face marbled in stems
and conducive to brain
curb contexts.

You would know it if you saw it,
which isn’t to say that
you would see it if you knew it.

But the lawns sure do
hang in rectitude
when the feral squeals.

-r. miller