11.26.17

Standard

Stringing a grimace
cold light
wavering
the flavor of slush
in defiance yield
the allotted inches
denial thrusting
and upending
savoring
but silently
the brittle page
of impending winter

-r. miller

Advertisements

11.13.17

Standard

Distracted by the pangs,
not a moment in sight
to advance splinters.
Dawn fringes
astride the weight of the womb.
Jurisdiction matters in our life across the hall.
The wall reaches out to touch
where our faces have been,
and in a manner of speaking.
Nothing was my discovery.
It might be that description matters less than I credit it
and that these perspectives are but coarse strokes of brush
that manifest an unsteady portrait.
It’s true my eyes are water
and so too my fingers, thrumming
hard gloss of book
while energy degrades energy
beneath a beguiling moon.

-r. miller

11/2/17

Standard

Coming up
ivory waters lavish.
Forewarning
of prize to ravish
unsightliness
and demure withering.
Wordless
and like.
Implosions of description.
For restriction
to spite
the untenable right,
leaves fortitude first,
a riddle of spit.
Valor, its
abject absence.
We undo by delay
the frightening tryst
and list
the ways.
Certain of our days.
Where limit our scope?

10/30/17

Standard

Somewhere in the flood
lies the substance of our striving.
I never rested content
in driving it home. Getting
to the meat of the poem,
one finds it just a bit spoiled.
Too accurate. I too
have toiled among torpid tongues.
This may be the last time
I assume this vivisectionist’s
cloak and dagger. I’ve paid
too greatly for this swagger you see.
Only now does my heart unfold
to reveal its truer nature,
the one the tavern clatter
confirms. From his mirror,
my polar opposite affirms
his commitment to keeping
the game rigged in his favor.
The flavor of the week is burnt retinas.

-r. miller

10/25/17

Standard

For some reason, the year in review
sliced into itself, spilling
multi-colored entrails across pristine pages
we’d intentionally left blank.
As all the gore and viscera sank
into the too-fine fibers, creating
gruesome Rorschach patterns
which sought to snare the whole of history
in ambiguities, I paused, pondering
more delicate things. The stench
of autumn rain stuck to my nostrils
like a nail to a post, and I
wasn’t in such a hurry to make sense
of this kind of atrocity.
I wasn’t in such a hurry
for anything, really. And slowly,
everything kind of bled out. All of us
were swallowed up by that hideous surge,
struggling to keep our heads above the surface
and partake in that air we once called “free.”

-r. miller