Life Picked Clean

I’m no longer certain
that the ground will hold.

Evidence flocks.
Sunken perimeter.

I swallow biography whole,
life picked clean by gut flora.

In this instance,
we are but incidents.

This isn’t a test,
but a trap.

Clap once for yes,
twice for help.

Gaze thwarted by cold introspection,
colder snows.

What if the mind
is merely a function?

Adjunct disjunct.
Connective tissue.

The reissue comes at first in waves
before tapering to a ripple.

One good pogrom
deserves another.

-r. miller


Have we a hunger worth keeping?
The reddest eye
contains such hideous sensations,
feels such fleshy images.

I walk new against the languor of sun.
Late November, always walking.
Against the nearness,
against life and limitless.
Limitless entangling, the frail despondent sun.

As I was speaking of a hunger,
somewhere a grayness overstepped.
There we were steeped in coldest rain.
What shot up, a pain
so big and mesmerizing,
it left me drooling transfixed but unfocused
and the the landscape cut to dirty ribbons.

We echoed down road,
through sickness and white.
By now, the hungers kept.
And we were set on losing.

-r. miller

So it is…

Their laughter chases us.

The dark sings playfully,
a tune spun viciously
from suicide and from shame.
What’s the name of that tune again?

Though our blood burns,
though our bodies weep,
we keep pace without ceasing.

Though the lengths we run
seem to consume us,
we keep pace without ceasing.

The beating of our feet
batters and bruises the floor,
for we keep pace without ceasing.

And still, their laughter chases us,
steadily gaining.

-r. miller

Fucking Hell

This isn’t the paradigm shift
that I signed up for.
Sitting up the whole night,
over-caffeinated and underfed,
we stretch our already tenuous positions
so thin they go translucent.
The air has the autumnal smell, you know?

Sometimes, all you need is a whisper.
Rumination does a body good.
I’m not necessarily proud
of what happened back there, but
I was so unsubstantial in the moment.
I’ve reached more than several breaking points by now.

Count this only with the left side of your brain.
Come to find that great personal trauma
was carrying us the entire time.
Lick it or ticket. Allow me to veto that for you.
Have enough guns and drum circles?
As if these predilections
were merely skin deep.

-r. miller

Not to be Seen

Something seen not to be seen,
the voice drying on the rocks
or our cold autumnal heritage,
verbiage of bone or loneliness
swimming against the crowd.

We, we are endowed
with a brightness not to be seen
through cluttered eyes, reprise the roles
that once we stumbled into
when emotions went uncategorized,

uncatalogued, and a single moment
occupied miles. We renew our smiles
by degrees, before heaving them,
sufficiently fat, into the hot cauldron of desire
to simmer slow and impart their savor.

Let us not waver in our daylong stride.
Let us glide freely over feral waters.
Let our love sharpen,
our will not darken,
as we pursue our urgent course.

-r. miller


The compulsion to disappear
weighs heavily.
For one burning instant,
the light comes undone, scatters is threads
from horizon to horizon.

We have these ashes, you see.

Something in her voice suggests a reticence.
What is concealed there?
Flowers, discarded, left to dry
by the path toward forgetting.
The vapors quickly fatten in the throat,
stinging the soft tissue,
but hesitantly.

Something in her touch suggests a reticence.
This testimony will be stricken
with plague or madness.
The cold breath of twilight
leaves all that I am
in so many words,
and I grow vaguer in the stillness.

-r. miller

More Real

Escape so lucid, lewd
entrancing trace of fleshly liberation.

O cradle me, suffuse me and infuse me.
Softly on the amplitude curvaceous,
her song in whispers or in gasps,
drifting vaporlike across the bed.

How unreal we have become
and yet more real
than we had ever dreamed,
so wholly wet and wetly whole.

I while away languid hours
lost within her miles of allure.
Drenched sensuous and sweet,
the gaze seductive raining over me.

Her all ignites my dull eyes proper.
Her all engulfs my muscle full.

-r. miller

The Way It Goes

Assume that clapping hands will save us.
That the fruits of savagery
can no longer contain their nectar.
An occasional cloud wishes only to make peace,
a useful sentiment perhaps,
but one of which we are ashamed.

Those decomposing czars
have made their case through friable teeth.
Cool, so let’s give’em a show then.
See how they like the sight
of our opalescent skin reflected in the water.
The way our mutual breath unsettles.

Eventually, something notable
will reoccur on a further page.
Until then however,
we palpitate like nervous stars.

-r. miller


You know what? Screw the man
and his blanched institutions,
his rigidified apparatus.
I have my own motor to suck.
The avenue’s casual blisters.

Midmorning heat with a midweek sheen.
Fine, so we’ll polish the protectors,
projectors, protracted sublimity.
The last bastion of progress
and its myriad bugs.
Ball up the horizon like wet tissue.

Here we’ve learned to walk
the talk back to its roots.
A portentous wind brings financial upheaval.
Of this we shall sing,
well into the cemetery’s depths.

-r. miller

Like I Was Saying

When the untethering commences,
what brave new forms of living
shall be ushered in?
At times, the pressure to keep to oneself
is unsuitable, unsustainable.
The tongue of noon, pushing through wilting crowds,
grows fat on its own spit.
A real workhorse passion is at play here,
in the hearts of every forsaken forlorn denizen.
It so happens we push pencils
for the fun of it.
These veiled intrusions
displace the life of the mind.
Suddenly, we find ourselves palpable.

-r. miller