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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5.31.19

Standard

Don’t need no crucifixes, dad.
Polish ‘em gently and await
some great upheaval.
This past life retrieval
went as well as we’d expect,
but certain protections still withhold.
It isn’t like corruption falters.
Who so alters the past
disrobes the present.
Lusciously, crass resentment
cores the body politic.
We really should stick to facts.
Genuine distaste is cluttering
my mouth with wordlessness.
Time to hasten the flux,
if you know what I mean.

-r. miller

5.27.19

Standard

I can’t seem to rid myself
of this museum stench.
Observe closely as I wrench
this scepter from
the sovereign’s moldy claw.
We must lay the law
in a shallow grave,
get the rave down on paper,
and savor what flagrancy proffers.
No new offers on the table,
no new bones in the meat.
Just how typical do I have to be?

-r. miller

5.20.19

Standard

So the smattering
distresses, distances, lays me
and all of us low for the grasping.
An artifice of malicious contrivance
doubles down and antes up,
but somehow I remember

the odd look of the light
and its violence. I’m at it again
in the ensuing brawl,
the windows shiver at the sound
of my bulky heart speaking in tongues.
No, I am a computer.

So the fabrication
whispers, witnesses, bears me
and all of us down sullen tracks
made for the taking.
If ever any of this is to end,
then it ends right now.

-r. miller

4.5.19

Standard

Finally, the future is canceled.
Concealed beneath this too dry soil
is one of several spectators to this panic.
Well now, there’s something to sneeze at.
Lick the dust from my bones,
O specter of crass commercialism.
Old truisms don’t sustain us,
it’s the other way around,
as in age feeds on youth.
Dazed to extremity
in this wasteland of jargon,
let’s at least misrepresent ourselves
with panache. Smash post-cultural malaise
with a smile. Meanwhile, my inner vision
is eating itself out of boredom.
The kingdom of heaven’s been rebuked.

-r. miller

4.3.19

Standard

Shifting the several,
selective concentration
mimics dull and duty.
Aggregate beauty fetishized in tow.
Apologetic apostrophes in a row
beside the raw image.
Isn’t that neat or niceness or negation?
Ease up on the exaltation, champ.
Stamp the sequence
with a sense of boundary, foreclosure.
Up next composure
clicks into gear,
to steer all meaning
toward an ever deepening fade.

-r. miller

4.1.19

Standard

What does the light here
taste like? Sweat, inner turmoil,
wet rocks and bone. Nightly,
I pull the voices of dead poets
from this ashes this light leaves.
I arrange these voices
in a cacophonous cluster,
plug my ears with wet sponges,
and turn whatever words
that manage to break through
into lovely little lullabies, which
don’t taste like the light.

-r. miller