1.14.18

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We fed our little firebrand on roots and tonic water.
The madness of the muddled era had given us a daughter
of revolution. So all thoughts affixed to evolution
seemed to redirect their aims. From then on, it was pollution.

Gray pollution, extending slender arms toward tawny clouds.
We tossed our perfumes on the ground to incite the dimming crowds
to action. They just shuffled slightly, then dispersed without a sound,
leaving vapor trails behind them, swirling all around.

We stood appalled and rank with thunder under the wicked veil,
murmuring amongst ourselves, wondering what would entail.
Surely life would not go on the way it had before
now that accidents and anger had shaken up the floor.

“All is cursed!” said the empaths and most were quick to agree
that every facet of our milieu was afflicted with anxiety.
Some turned their heads and coughed, others gripped their ears
and fled in all directions, drenching the streets with tears.

Me, I took the looking glass and booked it to the boonies,
disheveled and exasperated. I’d had it with these loonies!
Their talk, their trash, their lack of sense, it all seemed so unreal.
My footsteps left scars so deep the earth began to squeal.

It was heaven. It was rancor. It was everything in between.
But sometimes, you have to take things lying down. If you get what I mean.
Later on, as summer ebbed, webs of light were seen to fall.
“The fire and the will are one,” they cried, lilting softly like a pall.

-r. miller

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1.11.19

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I hadn’t thought it through.
I hadn’t devoted quite enough attention
to the details as they drifted
through the space between dream and fever.
The cream of morning rises
to a barren height, its light breaking
like a dropped mirror.
Time to memorize the terrors
twisting ’round the gate.
Time to breathe the hatred
into waking. My only wish
is that the quaking in my eyes
subsides so that I can see
in still-life again.

-r. miller

1.7.18

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This particular ocean,
is deep and deliciously pissed off.

You stand for hours noticing
the particular waves
and think your way up
the treble clef your wonderment is,
undulating, exhaling,
you’re a real poet now.

Overhead, the cumulus
have attained class-consciousness,
no easy hat trick.
Whispers are wanting.

While you dribble down the shore,
a fragment of some shell
bites you deep and lingers.

How ’bout that blood?

-r. miller

1.4.18

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Quell these quivering ribs,
rest and relapse.
I overheard this in the synapse
junction, joined with other stirrings,
symphonic or otherwise, always
sympathetic, grays
and other grays engrossing
all the light lays claim to.
What this does to you
does to me
quite exponentially.
You cut your teeth on fragmentary notions
while I chew the bigger picture
until my jaws admit fatigue.

-r. miller

1.2.19

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By all appearances, burned.
Blind yearning emits strange.
Protuberance… Glister…
Dare the rapture. The corridor
muddled in a kind of shame.
I’m not in going a categorical failure but…
Still the blather coruscating midday
feel the honey in gaping,
burnished wound. Fluster drips,
a ribbon of oxygen ‘round the lips,
and steered indisputably wrong.
The long day out of gas-lit song
further when we imagine stimulus.
Go froth and at once… Quiver

-r. miller

12.28.18

Standard

By turns savory and sour,
the implications of the purge
spread a menace through December.
A fragrance we remember

fitfully, when circumstances align.
We invite decline
among the ranks and refine
our tastes accordingly. Of course,

it could have gone differently.
When certain segments of reality
bite down, others diminish in intensity,

and you go to bed wondering,
true colors blundering
across your meager dreams.

-r. miller