The braid of thought
has come undone
a moment too soon.
Hold me close,
before my anxiety
balloons and carries me
to a colder region other
than this dull living room.
Already, the constellations
shift in their sockets,
traffic putters on
too slowly for
the general taste.
My hands are dirty,
and I can’t just
rub them clean again.
-r. miller
Stillness that we relaxed
other questionings, the trace
Those warmest regards
plait the reptile landscape
so stupefied by stomachache
Am I liquid
comatose in languid hue
or a bed presumed paradise
Not by my own hand
Not by my acquiescence
Founded a limitless
governed solely by sun’s trajectory
-r. miller
Somebody, anybody
acquit me already! My morning
is redacting itself from the records
gone brittle in my sterile archive.
The sense of being alive
soon calls on me to attend it
in sickness. I let things go
too far this time, much too far.
I should be throttling a greasy star
and riding it through deep space
to even deeper destitution.
Instead, I have plugs in my ears
to drown the sound of motion
as I recline on pungent leather.
-r. miller
Something in the way
she moves me out of sight-mind.
It’s like perdition to my bottled heart.
A rumbling, existential fart
progresses through the stations
of the cross and into my nasal cavity.
That’s life or something.
Look it up, not down.
Admittedly, my psychological landscape
is a slum these days, so
it isn’t any wonder why
there’s rioting in the streets,
dumpsters ablaze, and shards of glass
scattered like rose petals
along the sidewalks.
TEDTalks can’t save us anymore.
My blood’s gone bad for a while.
It’s looking for a new role to fill.
-r. miller
Atop this mound
of disemboweled clocks and watches,
the land seems impermanent.
I wave to you
from an opposing coast and you
don’t notice. Such is our rapport.
Rinse and repeat these words.
Clarity comes clattering
like a thousand dropped swords.
I think it’s time for reappraisal, for
reprising the roles
we had initially intended for ourselves.
I see you getting all ambiguous in the rain,
and find it comforting
to know that things like this
are still possible, that
with enough distance,
everything looks meaningless,
even the memes we make of ourselves
to keep us in suspension.
You used to view me with suspicion.
The joke’s officially on you.
-r. miller
Take this green for a foretaste of spring,
loosen your timid squall from its home
in the clouds of self-awareness.
Stop me if you’d like this dumbed down slightly.
Given that my nightly desecration sprees
are on hold, I may need a helping hand
to lead me into temptation.
A beleaguered nation
turns over in its sleep.
Too deeply have I felt the lash of lucidity
whilst idling in the feeding frenzy
collectively conceived.
This used to be something worth believing in.
This used to be a recreational occupation
but with stab wounds.
I mark the time and chew my fingers
until I appreciate them.
I’ll be long gone before you read this.
-r. miller
It’s crazy, non? How
the stillness of the room
turns sweet and swallows me
without flinching.
And the sour light which seeks
to break that stillness
into stuttering fragments…
Let’s see how pretentious
I can get today.
This crown of ambiguous
terminology is burning
all of its possible meanings
into my forehead.
I could use some refreshment after all.
My most tender moments
quietly recede
into the carpet fibers,
each of them bidding me adieu
with two fingers raised.
Time to find a new bone to pick…
-r. miller
I can take care of myself. Scratch that.
I’m not motivated enough. String me up
by my fingertips and encase me
in sunshine and barbed wire.
These are the kinds of dire straits
I regularly seek. I have a weak heartbeat,
pudding for a brain. A stain
upon the membrane of whatever it was
I once desired most. Was it love?
If you must give it a name,
make sure that name has aesthetic worth.
Make sure it has a warm place to sleep.
The pit of my stomach has deepened
to a disturbing degree, and sooner or later,
it’s going to be me who’s digested
in its depths. Now that’s what I call music.
-r. miller
I pledge allegiance to the hag
of the United States of demolition.
Precision tuned and wandering
through murky vales of cultural deficiency,
my body vibrates
with a sudden urge to implode.
This load I’ve taken upon myself,
this red-and-white striped drapeau
with the cosmos in a corner,
is an undue burden, a danger
to itself and others.
Who would have guessed
that a phantom could possess
both weight and density?
If this be my destiny, I’d like to trade it
for another, more liberated one.
Perhaps with a better soundtrack?
I’d even settle for a laugh track.
But there it is, that moldy drapeau,
still clinging to my back,
gnawing at my spinal cord,
trying to infiltrate my nerves…
-r. miller
By definition, in advance,
still born and in wading,
but we these wounds uphold.
The aroma of warm piss assaulted.
The kind of thing takes gall.
Something in the mechanics. Dynamic…
From the likes. He kept up a fine polish,
cut a fine figure. Lit up quick
and nicely. In the moments,
mere icicles put into words.
What is it about fast-and-loose
makes a man inarticulate, ravenous,
and his eyes roll back?
What is it about fast-and-loose
that makes breath heavier?
I said no one’s looking, not to worry.
The sorry sensation came
without warning.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 