Less of a Bummer

Getting through the
going through it part, one is
reminded of one’s own
staying power.
Let this greasy
engorged flower
stand for reason,
or something of that ilk.
Let this tumbler of dry milk
sustain me for
a whole summer.
I promise, I’ll be less
of a bummer in the
next scene,
once the montage phase has ended
(If indeed it does
end).
And if it doesn’t, well,
I’ll stop it
dead in its tricks.

-r. miller

Feast of St. Valentine

You don’t understand; I don’t have
these pictures in my head, can’t have
them even. Abandoning vacation mode,
we have the appearance of jet streams
against a soft red sky, and the bills come
one by one to be collected, off
again seeking the next fucking letdown,
the pen low on ink, evidence
in tatters by the incandescent roundhouse.

I like the look of lacking
through the melted glass of private lives,
stitching together a vast theory of everything.

You weren’t supposed to see
what it is you’re seeing, even glimpsing,
at this merry moment of reply, and me
as haggard and horrid as ever, wearing
the feeling in my cheek the feeling of you
bubbling cool and classy as you whisper
to me through the crescendo of afternoon,
clapping me real good with temptation.

-r. miller

More Real

Escape so lucid, lewd
entrancing trace of fleshly liberation.

O cradle me, suffuse me and infuse me.
Softly on the amplitude curvaceous,
her song in whispers or in gasps,
drifting vaporlike across the bed.

How unreal we have become
and yet more real
than we had ever dreamed,
so wholly wet and wetly whole.

I while away languid hours
lost within her miles of allure.
Drenched sensuous and sweet,
the gaze seductive raining over me.

Her all ignites my dull eyes proper.
Her all engulfs my muscle full.

-r. miller

Protest

You know what? Screw the man
and his blanched institutions,
his rigidified apparatus.
I have my own motor to suck.
The avenue’s casual blisters.

Midmorning heat with a midweek sheen.
Fine, so we’ll polish the protectors,
projectors, protracted sublimity.
The last bastion of progress
and its myriad bugs.
Ball up the horizon like wet tissue.

Here we’ve learned to walk
the talk back to its roots.
A portentous wind brings financial upheaval.
Of this we shall sing,
well into the cemetery’s depths.

-r. miller

Certain Stimuli

Deadass left me in a death’s alley,
volleying for supremacy
with a prick and a pontiff.

Elsewhere, the populace grows stiff,
stunting further projections into the ether
of stifled voices that formed around the state
like a concrete dome.

How nice for them.

But certain stimuli
we withheld from our eager flesh
and clearly it’s only beginning
to exact a rather inexact toll;
it would seem our fate is “sealed,”
as in a wax casing.

And here I figured that the path to salvation
necessarily entailed chasing every chance
ego death wherever they emerged.
Now the wandering catastrophe stills
to emit a prophecy,
one whose implications neither stun nor alarm,
but which nevertheless spell
disquiet for us all.

-r. miller

Anniversary

First off, let me just say
that I understand you, on a cellular level.

And for once, our disorganized revel
has achieved staying power.

Anyone who’s ever accused us
of becoming more fastidious

in our old age can, to put this politely,
take the long way home.

Feel free to roam my unspoiled frontier
at any time you find convenient.

If for no other reason
than to upset the neighbors.

-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

Rain Today

My near-childlike innards  
rumble truthfully as I eye stupidly  
the lumbering clouds spilling  
their own against the paste-white sky.  
Everything within limits.  
The here smells of sour penitence,  
the there, of burning fuel and indecent fortitude.  
Given this, it’s a miracle that I’m anywhere.  
Come on now, don’t be so uninspiring.  
Unload a delicious smile  
on the waiting populace  
and respire more freely.  
Our time is now and more ethical than ever!  
As for the gracious greasefed nevermind  
scrolling o’er my bleary eyes, well,  
we’ve got some plans for that,  
all of them unmedicated and cantankerous.  
Simply over-water your liberty and see.

-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

11.11.19

Between sighs, the skin heaving,
apropos and weaving.
Intrinsic course, skin’s river flowing.
One unto another in morning or at evening,
with shadows in the mind concealing
other shadows. At last, the fault lines grimacing
and contorting as the molten center
gurgles, pushes, approves.
Promulgate the lyric jelly, harsher mistress,
and enfold me in your sway.

-r. miller