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


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


Derail me tenderly.
Direct all further inquiry
to the overflowing
gutters and the empty
parking lots at midnight.
I can only hold myself so steadily,
oh friend with benefits,
and this beauty mask
has grown too tight.

Centuries of infighting
have left us deaf
to further commotion.
Perhaps we ought to
commodify our losses
like proper aesthetes,
raise a glass
to this tepid spectacle,
and then drop it to the floor.

-r. miller


Something in the sleeping…
A light like water leaping
from the wound. As of late,
I’ve pruned the thorns
of whatever’s sprouted in my brain.
The ensuing pain was marginal,
but necessary. Now,
I have that much less to think about.

-r. miller


In the cold, intellection
fractures like brittle rock.
Powdery residue, a memoria,
lay in the brain’s creases,
as one by one, coughs issue
and irritation ensues.
This melancholy is of
a color I can’t name.

-r. miller


I’m drying up
beneath a piss-stained sky,
chemical burns inside
my glistering skull, ink tracks
crisscrossing my torso,
waiting on an undecided twilight
and some half-baked revelation
to still the jitters in my fingers.

-r. miller