Seamless Miles

It’s much later than we think.
The suburbs, melting into obsolescence,
understand more truthfully.

We’re not prone to admitting much
beyond ordinary defeat.
Sucked back into the chasm,
a mild light resigns.

We leech sweetness
from our thoughtfully weakened spines,
putting on airs and melancholy smiles
as the seamless miles of development
swiftly begin encroaching.

It’s much later than we think.
Carnivorous stars, approaching…

-r. miller

Pressure’s On

All else notwithstanding…
The human element wriggles in furtively.
Giggles and upset, uproar, upswing.
It’s like, would someone please
delineate this madness already?
Pouring forth in a fury, the best side
nevertheless kept hidden.

Positively smitten with smiting,
they lived as free people
and upheld their virtues against those
whose sole task was to ensure their weakening.
A kind of ambiguity intervened,
one which laid all its promise bare,
so that even the least captivated
felt their interest pique.
Certain barriers were compromised,
others still dissolved.

Finally, we feel the touch of true ethics.
We exist in the contrary.
We exist to universal acclaim.

-r. miller

Perpetually in Awe

I can only stomach so much
of your absence, love.

What music you’ve managed to coax
from these wearied, worried veins!
And how feverishly I long
to dwell in such lusciousness as you,
sprawling sensuously goddess like
against starchy hotel sheets.

Darling, my defeats are manifold, but
when I hold you, skin to skin
my heart sighs victory.
That’s not too cheesy, is it?

By all means, smother me,
stain my lips with yours, oh sweetness,
and leave my each and every nerve trembling
perpetually in awe of you.

-r. miller


Consider this an exercise
in deliberate incompetence.
Compensate me or don’t,
the rules aren’t ours to make.
At the conclusion of the stakeout,
those involved shook hands
and quietly declared their affections.
A blaze of imperfections singes the eye.
City delimits. Twice approaching vehicle.
The kind of madness that drives one
to affirmative gestures in a negative space.
Place the pediments. All that for only the merest
modicum of support. She sticks the landing,
unhanding her rigid standards. In vitrio vigor.
The cranial flows grown overabundant.
Too good to go one sucking the thumbs
of those deemed superior.
Speculators need not apply.

-r. miller

So Much Foreground

By my muddled muddlings,
I am able to discern peculiar
particularities or particular
peculiarities, don’t matter which,
but all the same, I’m troubled
by the fringed sun’s rumblings
and the land’s heft and swell.
So much foreground
for but one mind to imbibe.
I’m least likely to consider
the consternation of time
as it moves inscrutably
and even less likely to be moved by it.
There’s a certain resonance
that barricades itself within
the inner ear, holding all
the other resonances hostage
in the meanwhile as they tremble
in their gaudy undergarments
and beg for whatever mercy’s
most in fashion. I call this passion,
Alternate theories need not apply.

-r. miller

Only the Prodding

We could probably stand
to de-stress a little, fuck off
to some gem-encrusted island
just beyond the Pacific sun,
dipping into the ocean
like it was a great blazing
punch bowl or something.
After all, this town full
of dust mites and fried blood
don’t care about us.
Me, I mean.

Tie me down so I stop jittering,
fidgeting with my keys.
One of which unlocks
the luminous door in back of my skull,
so you can see the hectic
inside business going on.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.

I don’t like how the scenery
is playing out. I don’t see the point.
Only the prodding.
Have I been absolutely clear?
And here I was only looking
to feel mildly astonished.

-r. miller

Who’s Listening?

Through apricot-colored clouds,
a drizzle of whispers, unintelligible,
drives the out-of-style indoors.

Forecast this, ye cretins.
Those who can’t keep time
with the junkyard hustle
have no right to complain.
Favorable shock and duress
have their place in our improvised schema,
yet who’s listening?

I’ve got the old randomness itch it seems,
and I’m no longer afraid to use it.
So sick of these anodyne tropes
dotting the textual landscape.
Ditto the nostalgia circuit, its listless current.
I’ve got an ample supply of boiled blood
to last until the next doomsday,
and more than enough nerve heat
to curry fever with the corybantic muses

whose fury moves through me.

-r. miller

Nevertheless Dissolving

Iconicity ionized,
lionized disaster rabble.
Burn all the t-shirts.
Came crying forward, o meticulous.

Reap metabolic rapture, unspoken.
Fidget of worms aglow.
Bow penultimate. Necessity
scavenges. Love threatens,

facticity above all else.
Acknowledgement pale,
sprung from crawling carcass,

wants the manager. Nevertheless,
dissolving, discoursing
on sex and magick.

-r. miller

The Ghosts I Tote

I’m not sure how cautiously I can tread.  
I’ve only just arisen as the de facto  
head of state-sanctioned cognitive dissonance.  
Behold the ghosts I tote  
with less-than-enthusiasm  
through the bleak euphoria of midwinter!  
Frazzled phantoms composed of rose.  
A bit on the nose,  
but I’ve been accused of worse.  
On the course laid bare before me,  
I can find no room for divagation.  
Only taut familiarity, drumming  
emaciated fingers on each careful twist and turn.  
Nostalgia’s withering embrace.  

-r. miller