Regrets

It was the quickness
with which you cut me to shreds,
the way I bled ferociously
over the flowerbed of our love
and fed the soil my secrets.

It was the way the regrets
came easier than you did,
and the way that, when the sun opened up
its hairy mouth to sing, I felt
the vague sting of a second thought.

-r. miller

Bits of Myself

Music blooms in the glistening
storm like a reflection
upon the surface of a window
stained in libations of twilight –
purple and darkening orange.

Secretly a man exceeds
his costume and predicts
a renaissance of authenticity
to come staggering forth from
the shut eyes of infants.

Slow droplets of song arrange
in irregular patterns upon
my hair sauntering into the furrows
of my forehead, and beneath
an awning I spread

a haphazard flame
in my Jean-Paul Sartre eloquence
coat, discarding a series of names
to the parade of traffic
and with them, bits of myself.

-r. miller

Seraph

So now that we’ve chastised
and chased out our remaining hangups,
can we fantasize finally
without further interruption?
I hadn’t expected the corruption
to be so pronounced,
nor the elongated shadows
shimmying up the staircase.
Even at our basest, our crudest,
we’re still considered prudes.
I can’t help but scoff at the attitudes
that give birth to such beliefs,
at the narcissistic gimme-gimmes
who adopt them, the grief they inflict
on unsuspecting passersby.
It’s always been my opinion
that if you haven’t got wings,
you maybe shouldn’t try to fly.

-r. miller

For When You Go Searching and Come Up With Nothing

A slumped slandering, this
our gifted aperture.
It pertains only to exploitation,
experience, and the usage of names,
and names only a privilege.
What spreads its doleful bedroll
into the distances dancing
like harem fans is the worried future,
the future that is to be
our furniture. Our gift is plain
wonder in the hurried shouts
stowed in the throats of birds.
Who authorizes our desire
to be more than pencils pushing
into the serpentine wilderness
Shifting in thought, we bought
only the farmhouse grift,
or something inessential
as a pitcher of blue Kool-Aid, because who
really enjoys the taste of blue?

-r. miller