11.21.18

Stiff and sharp, unkempt perfection
lies down in the company of weeds.
Listen, I resent the curve of each gaze
which lands delicately upon my roguish
persona like a maple pod. I can’t exactly
say if I was realized or simply a daydream.
But I’m not making a distinction,
I’m creating a distraction, erupting
as I often do in contemporary fashion.
Let the grace drain out of all these
false pretensions, let each inauthentic mouth
be pressed into a paste. The wasteland
dutifully encroaches upon
what can easily be put into words.

-r. miller

8.1.18

I’ve really stepped in it this time.
The same cold mouths
issue the same cold lines
about repentance.
Syringes are duly divested
of their serums and I hate to say it,
but it looks like rain.
How much pain do you have to endure
before you can call this “Life?”
I’ve turned over
far too many new leaves.
What I want is a little romance,
but without the frills.
The fast approaching wave
possesses a magnitude
I’m not sure I can withstand.
I’ll be just fine, I tell myself, just fine.
Once I’ve handed in my two-weeks’ notice.

-r. miller