Day After Blues

New day, same vantage.
I’ll tell more about it sometime,
but for now, we rumba.
Leaden whispers drop
decisively in the ear.
Mangled mind devoured
by recurrent dawns,
I keep my gaze contained.
Future stained a livid shade.
You must be wondering,
and in so doing,

-r. miller

Is It Time Yet to Get Down?

Somebody’s got a case of the Mondays.
By now, it’s Thursday,
and the forecast is calling
for sophisticated violence.

Get ready for a heartbreaking drip, ignoble tease.
Observe the ease with which these sidewalks
issue their promise of meaningful passage
toward a future circumscribed
only by the city limits.

You know, like I was saying.
Feels like eons ago
that we last donned luxuriant corporate regalia
and got our fill of each other.
Sustained only by heaving gulps of pure energy.
I dig not what the others dig.
This resonance has failed to please.

-r. miller

Another One About Being Tired

Alright, I’m going to need a moment.
A haunting sound, a haunting image.
A single sigh swathed in sheets of blue.

To think I once thought myself capable
of measuring the will of the earth
using only extremities.

I’m afraid I must retract the following:
past statements, past indiscretions, past lives.
Rosy dust coheres in an out-of-touch space.

I caress the finer points of time’s edge,
singing to myself and myself alone
a litany of little deviations.

-r. miller

Good Luck With That

I’m guessing the division is unsatisfying.
The undistinguished whatever nags
from behind a gathering storm.
His tsk is eternal.
Unluckily enough, I’m beset on all sides
by crass emojis, sinews
unable to replicate, duress on course.
The main thing is compunction,
humming it up with the demonic.
Trembling aloud
the worst of several indiscretions
that so impress our generation’s battered countenance,
we take to the air, the field, the crosswalk.
Casual Friday won’t ever be the same.

-r. miller

In Deep

Go ahead
and crimp those remnants.
We find whatever
never-sought conclusions
we deserve at the end
of a long memory about fields
and ancient stonework.

A cataclysm is underway.
Just say you want
the contents of your head
shifted up a bit, sifted through
slightly rusted mesh
so as to impart flavor.
How are we proceeding today?

Confetti canyons stand between us,
and all New Year’s resolutions
take up arms. But
this is merely one part
of the perception.
The clattering in the eyes.

-r. miller

Sure is Something

More damage than expected,
but considering all things,
we’re less maudlin about it than we oughtta be.
Still, what strange duress.

The weary eye contains
the disco of a dying age.
Thus the denizens of this haunted place
rage rage against the drooping of the beat.
Now get lost in my bones.

I was an upstanding citizen in my heyday.
A pulse for every finger,
a figure worth drawing.
Of course, the wall of wavering hands
shot up out of the nothing my passions made,
and I stayed on the line
until the dial tone sounded itself into obsolescence.

Adolescence is a mighty fine tragedy,
wouldn’t you agree?
We still can’t get our gaze out
from underneath it.

-r. miller

French Exit

What vague wilderness we inhabit.
Uninhibited, an agenda works
its tendrils through the murk,
hungry for the feel of us.

Therefore, blend we
our bodies with the trembling fog,
that we remain untroubled
and untouched.

-r. miller

‘Tis the Season

It’s cool to be totally lacking in hope.
Fool me once, you know,
but fool me twice, and it’s orgasmic.
Sliding up and down the grayscale
brings the pleasure of a lifetime,
lays it mangled at your craggy feet,
saying ‘Ain’t it nifty?’

Thoughts range from air purifiers
to overdoses to gay space communism.
Without a working definition,
one could achieve complete self-mastery.

Has thou considered
the web of mystery contained
within the gleaming eyes of a doll?
I sure haven’t, but then again,
I’ve lost all things to consider.

-r. miller

Cry Winter

Going into glisten,
night-blended of course,
and in shock.

We’ll have a smooth one,
on clock sputtering,
spiffy weird conundrum.

Spies in flashlight,
dehydrated yet awash,
cry winter.

In totality blister interest
ceding nothing further
to the cause.

I let my blink aloft
on swoop of wind.
I love once by word,

so it seems.
Onyx canopy drenched in dream,
sliding at last in contradiction.

-r. miller


I want us to imagine
the cosmos as a suppository.
Supposing your predictions fill with blood,
will you then assert
the supremacy of the wiggle?
Get off my mojo, personification of Dunning-Kruger.

I still believe in Santa, after all,
and that means most of us are fucked.
I still believe my conscience is a trained octopus,
and my will is good, yeah-eah-eah yeeeeeeeeeeah.
Stone the way with orthopedic insoles.
This isn’t meant to console you.

-r. miller