1.11.19

Standard

I hadn’t thought it through.
I hadn’t devoted quite enough attention
to the details as they drifted
through the space between dream and fever.
The cream of morning rises
to a barren height, its light breaking
like a dropped mirror.
Time to memorize the terrors
twisting ’round the gate.
Time to breathe the hatred
into waking. My only wish
is that the quaking in my eyes
subsides so that I can see
in still-life again.

-r. miller

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1.7.18

Standard

This particular ocean,
is deep and deliciously pissed off.

You stand for hours noticing
the particular waves
and think your way up
the treble clef your wonderment is,
undulating, exhaling,
you’re a real poet now.

Overhead, the cumulus
have attained class-consciousness,
no easy hat trick.
Whispers are wanting.

While you dribble down the shore,
a fragment of some shell
bites you deep and lingers.

How ’bout that blood?

-r. miller

1.4.18

Standard

Quell these quivering ribs,
rest and relapse.
I overheard this in the synapse
junction, joined with other stirrings,
symphonic or otherwise, always
sympathetic, grays
and other grays engrossing
all the light lays claim to.
What this does to you
does to me
quite exponentially.
You cut your teeth on fragmentary notions
while I chew the bigger picture
until my jaws admit fatigue.

-r. miller

1.2.19

Standard

By all appearances, burned.
Blind yearning emits strange.
Protuberance… Glister…
Dare the rapture. The corridor
muddled in a kind of shame.
I’m not in going a categorical failure but…
Still the blather coruscating midday
feel the honey in gaping,
burnished wound. Fluster drips,
a ribbon of oxygen ‘round the lips,
and steered indisputably wrong.
The long day out of gas-lit song
further when we imagine stimulus.
Go froth and at once… Quiver

-r. miller

12.24.18

Standard

Up hops sky the saffron heap,
rudimentary knowing of all get out.
Somewhere home dissipates
in the reflecting, sturdy

the rain tower deflecting collectivity.
Sheepish, I decline.
Overhead warming asleepish
on the spine of caring.

Quiet and utterly, retrospect
discourse half-ass to heat.
Cue cold symptoms and crass repartee.
Winter sinks into unruly skin.

-r. miller

12.19.18

Standard

Dusk drips from frozen sky
to drowsy earth.
Whose wasteland is this?
As a matter of fact, this matters
somewhat, but very little.
I keep my hands in my pockets
along with seven years of weariness
and the strange warmth
to which it adheres.
No one steers me wrong
without consent. As if my dented mind
had capacity left to conceive
of something like agency.
I don’t believe in discord
or disillusionment anymore
or in anything which could replace them.
Though the passion within me
is steadily diminishing,
my limbs haven’t stopped twitching,
as December grins on
and makes gray mud
of these poems.

-r. miller