The window was formed
a blessed thing
out of sight and mind.
We return in kind
this wisdom of the glass,
all-becoming.
Simply stunning in our Sunday.
Legions we seek.
Warmth emanating from the fingers.
So the weekend fits
inside cupped hands,
tremors, quick flits of eye.
Conscious visitation so resolved,
drifting persona to persona.
-r. miller
Dead set. Dead center.
The center distresses,
the wayside wavers.
You seriously mean to ask
for a raise? In this climate?
Just how do you stomach it?
Innocent protector of all that has been,
show your answers to your neighbor.
Now we instigate with persuasion,
sullen as a rock, punch-drunk
eyes quivering.
-r. miller
Time to crank up the metaphor machine.
My back got busted at the border
with a kilo of coke, six pounds of weed,
12 tabs of LSD, and a whole
shitload of amphetamines.
Amphetamine, amphetayours.
Leave it to whiplash to lack
what the kids these days are calling snooze.
Doozy ass dipshit rankles
crinkle bunnies in hop.
So goeth the headlines.
And if you think for one gun-fondling second
that I won’t blow my cover before you,
well buckeroo, my pants off to ya.
There’s a kiss hidden somewhere
in this collage, and only the best
trained murmurers possess just the right lips
to locate it. Strap a raw steak
to my cerebral cortex.
I’ll go without saying.
-r. miller
Fuck, if you’re gonna dick me,
at least use glofiber.
Trust me, I can still vomit
heartthrobs with the best of them,
even if not so proactively.
Roll credits. Here’s an attaboy for my troubles.
My life contained in a vintage lunchbox,
every single 90’s wet dream and all.
Like certain pictures
that just can’t hang straight.
It was date night if memory serves,
and memory does, in fact, serve.
She wants to tussle she says,
and I’m obliged to press into her.
Picture me in a mandrill mask,
really coming again.
Set my dress on fire.
Pull me to safety/climax, what have you.
I never meant to hop on that gristle.
Every breakfast is an opportunity to roll call.
The booty just flows and flows
and fucking flows.
-r. miller
Hot damn,
I’m a little fuck mango.
If it please the court,
I have this generous handful
of indeterminate pills.
That’s not a thought that’s soot.
Like wage I war
with endless cost-of-living.
Surmise me or don’t. Prophecy already.
Go ahead and get shifted in the solar plexus,
but leave the driving to grandma.
You can’t skydive.
I miss the human truth of your smile,
and miles upon miles
wiggle their cans
out of the darkness we regurgitate.
-r. miller
It’s cool to be totally lacking in hope.
Fool me once, you know,
but fool me twice, and it’s orgasmic.
Sliding up and down the grayscale
brings the pleasure of a lifetime,
lays it mangled at your craggy feet,
saying ‘Ain’t it nifty?’
Thoughts range from air purifiers
to overdoses to gay space communism.
Without a working definition,
one could achieve complete self-mastery.
Has thou considered
the web of mystery contained
within the gleaming eyes of a doll?
I sure haven’t, but then again,
I’ve lost all things to consider.
-r. miller
Going into glisten,
night-blended of course,
and in shock.
We’ll have a smooth one,
on clock sputtering,
spiffy weird conundrum.
Spies in flashlight,
dehydrated yet awash,
cry winter.
In totality blister interest
ceding nothing further
to the cause.
I let my blink aloft
on swoop of wind.
I love once by word,
so it seems.
Onyx canopy drenched in dream,
sliding at last in contradiction.
-r. miller
I want us to imagine
the cosmos as a suppository.
Supposing your predictions fill with blood,
will you then assert
the supremacy of the wiggle?
Get off my mojo, personification of Dunning-Kruger.
I still believe in Santa, after all,
and that means most of us are fucked.
I still believe my conscience is a trained octopus,
and my will is good, yeah-eah-eah yeeeeeeeeeeah.
Stone the way with orthopedic insoles.
This isn’t meant to console you.
-r. miller
So I got caught up
in a radiant red belch bursting
from oblivion’s canker riddled maw
under its muff I felt the true
sting of progress what
else hypes you up like that my love
is a turbine engine on a murder spree
which is to say it’s only you
and me from here on out kid
please don’t shame me for the way
my hips coagulate you walk
your own damn walk
the pilot light up and dumps
then sprints to the mythical jersey shore
patternless pattern of excitement
all night long we get wasted
on juniper spew waist-deep
in underdog sweat
-r. miller
Stand and be glad of the wet.
The happening heart in all extremes
carols high and haughty,
hot with wintry fervor.
See we unclasp these tremblings
and O sweet nectar laves.
The joyous decibels disseminate
through cold and night.
Face to face, pulse to pulse, light to light,
we couple so generously and right.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 