6.12.19

Standard

Good grief
on gravy wheels,
graven imagery.
We have a lot to suspect,
and how damning is that?
The durability of passion,
any passion,
is riddled with context.
Come unhinge,
or bathe in silken rivers,
let’s recant whatever
repentance was asked,
drive in dire aura
to the second degree.
I have this rapture to explain.
I have this rupture to maintain.
Mountains of blather
bleed discursively
through the humdrum.
Don’t expect any further
dumbing down.

-r. miller

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6.3.19

Standard

Behind the thrust of corruption,
stultify mouth and malice hold.

Trying tied assurance
in its whispers and insurgent cold.

Collect we these drips of intellection,
insofar as reasons fold.

Enveloped in an acrimony,
we whimper and grow old.

-r. miller

5.31.19

Standard

Don’t need no crucifixes, dad.
Polish ‘em gently and await
some great upheaval.
This past life retrieval
went as well as we’d expect,
but certain protections still withhold.
It isn’t like corruption falters.
Who so alters the past
disrobes the present.
Lusciously, crass resentment
cores the body politic.
We really should stick to facts.
Genuine distaste is cluttering
my mouth with wordlessness.
Time to hasten the flux,
if you know what I mean.

-r. miller

4.5.19

Standard

Finally, the future is canceled.
Concealed beneath this too dry soil
is one of several spectators to this panic.
Well now, there’s something to sneeze at.
Lick the dust from my bones,
O specter of crass commercialism.
Old truisms don’t sustain us,
it’s the other way around,
as in age feeds on youth.
Dazed to extremity
in this wasteland of jargon,
let’s at least misrepresent ourselves
with panache. Smash post-cultural malaise
with a smile. Meanwhile, my inner vision
is eating itself out of boredom.
The kingdom of heaven’s been rebuked.

-r. miller

4.3.19

Standard

Shifting the several,
selective concentration
mimics dull and duty.
Aggregate beauty fetishized in tow.
Apologetic apostrophes in a row
beside the raw image.
Isn’t that neat or niceness or negation?
Ease up on the exaltation, champ.
Stamp the sequence
with a sense of boundary, foreclosure.
Up next composure
clicks into gear,
to steer all meaning
toward an ever deepening fade.

-r. miller

4.1.19

Standard

What does the light here
taste like? Sweat, inner turmoil,
wet rocks and bone. Nightly,
I pull the voices of dead poets
from this ashes this light leaves.
I arrange these voices
in a cacophonous cluster,
plug my ears with wet sponges,
and turn whatever words
that manage to break through
into lovely little lullabies, which
don’t taste like the light.

-r. miller

3.27.19

Standard

I can think of nothing
that would please me more.
Rains over the square, the stores
with cracked windows and nothing to sell.
Something is amiss. I tread
this wicked length of street
with hand in pocket,
worrying about the good old days.

It all goes down… Down poorly-lit backroads,
barely paved, shaved atria, slivered mouths.
And then it comes back up
like so much half-digested food.

A new mood is in session,
a kind of regression that intends
to overstay its welcome and leave
all kinds of clutter in its wake.
New headaches and unfinished stanzas,
luminous tumors of regret.

Like a rumor, the moon slips
slyly into view, and I exhale,
gray vapor unspooling
from my brittle lips.

-r. miller