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My own ghosts

Standard

Certain preventative measures
are taken purely for their own sake,
for the pure pleasure of prohibition
and the attendant sense of unabashed power.

Lamely, my own shadow cowers
in the very light which reveals it.
This is where the argument backs up
and into its murky premise.

We haven’t enough disbelief between us
to keep up this charade.
What’s contained within the forehead wrinkles
which so adorn the Zeitgeist?

The scent of mustard overwhelms the corridor.
Trust me, I have my ghosts to bear.
But what to wear in the process?
It’s all coming unhinged anyway…

-r. miller

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6.14.19

Standard

Full on, the sweat
climbs bravely through the pores.
Flooring it now, but
where or when is the destination?
Have I no destiny to uphold?
Seeing with tattered eyes is one thing.
It’s quite another to breathe with them.
This mound of nervous excuses
appears to have grown independent
of anyone’s wishing, and I’m willing to bet
it won’t topple without serious effort.
Effective strategies are withheld at little cost.
This may come as a shock,
but it leaves as a surge.

-r. miller

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

6.10.19

Standard

(Drastic) (The backwards) (Slavering on record) (Rejects, abject) (Several stains) (De-brained) (Data weeping) (Here in the mundane) (Feathery rampage) (Peopled with stuttering) (Gravely shuttering) (A creep preoccupation) (Disinfect claims) (Sequential overload) (Undertowed and gnashing) (Drastic) (The backwards) (Uprising)

-r. miller

6.7.19

Standard

Could we have settled
on a worse historical account?
Even a slight amount of tedium
is enough to render the whole unpalatable.
Not that anyone’s keeping score.
What’s more, the “rapping at my chamber door”
has found a way to derail
what small momentum I’d mustered
over the course of these past few lives.
Take self-actualization
off the table then.
I’m not seriously able in any way.
Another day, another dirt nap.
At long last, a crapshoot
we can stake our pride upon!
The tide of recollection
has finally passed my neck;
time to open up my lungs.

-r. miller

6.5.19

Standard

Leisurely, the abyss crawls up
through showers of squandered potential,
slips into something more comfortable.
I’d rather be doing it in the dark.

Try being more relatable, mon cher,
and I might try you on for size.
Funny how time flies
when you’re eating your fingers.

Whose silhouette, shade or wraith
lingers here before me?
As if the situation could be
any more tantalizing…

-r. miller