9.13.19

Standard

The mouth of all this worry
is opening to receive all
us petty hucksters, hustlers,
and vagabonds of intellect.
Relief arrives in pretty parcels
tied with shifting-colored ribbons.
“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous”
and so much more enticing.
The icing on the cake tastes
of burnt hash and asphalt, and suddenly,
life seems that much sweeter.

-r. miller

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9.4.19

Standard

Much of the unqualified
bilge was drained.
The hucksters got their fair shake in
before it was too late.
By now, we’d become weaponized,
given to unapologetics, bent
on breaking the nowhere
leading boulevard into colder
and colder fragments.

An explosive finish dangled
just within reach. I forgot
how good it felt to risk my neck,
to bruise my rind,
for disaster to flirt back for once.

Among the populace,
the prevailing temperment
was soporific, though in rare
moments of wakefulness,
some managed to hurl epithets
in our direction. We were “degenerates”

and eased into the designation
as into a warm bath.
Some just have no patience
for sophistication.

-r. miller

9.2.19

Standard

This isn’t the learning curve
I signed up for.
Facing once more
the back door
procession of charade and intrigue,
I hold fast to my limitations.
I express and modify these honestly,
build from them a dynasty
which will rain
fierce fragments of a gaze
upon the estates in the hills.
Those half-baked, half-cocked,
corruptible shills
won’t ever catch us
with our pants down.
We aren’t even
a part of this country;
nor are we apart from it.

-r. miller

8.28.19

Standard

It’s all going to go
somewhere. Immaterial perhaps,
but then again, aren’t we all?

The slumber slated
for mid-daze blooms
ahead of schedule
to the elation of the enervated.

On an unrelated note,
we float towards heaven
with a highball for each hand.
We’ve applied a brand
new face for the occasion.

All is lazy meandering,
lullabies, and lilac mist.

Somewhere in the past,
a land of balled fists
undulates less expressively,
less purposefully,
as it slides
down memory’s throat.

-r. miller

Hangover

Standard

Quivering piles of hurt feelings
(No incentive)
A vast and fatal glitch
(No incentive)
Rotten matter, explosives
(No incentive)
Slow motion straining of the neck
(No incentive)
Dead whispers ranged upon anemic lips
(No incentive)
Bursts of rust and hyperbole
(No incentive)
Moonlight withered, cold, despondent
(No incentive)
The force of delirium intensified
(No incentive)

-r. miller

7.31.19

Standard

I hadn’t said what
others accused me of saying.
They’d only barely been paying
any attention, the cheapskates,
and besides, I had a lump
in my throat that day
the size of a small continent.
Trust me, nothing was said.
But from that nothing emerged
an incandescent “Fuck you,”
and it took up residence
in the middle of the midnight sky.
Utterly resplendent,
bathing pleb and patrician alike
in its cool, crystalline glow…

-r. miller