8/16/17

Standard

Whatever we’d said amongst friends
has steadily grown fat in the cold
of this dismal atmosphere.
It wasn’t until post-coitus
that we’d reappear like dandelions
with twice the tenacity.
Something like cognizance overflows
the opal dome of domesticity,
that, frankly, I’ve been trying to rupture
since that day I pulled a nerve.
Next time, act like an undeserving pest.
Yours is the last request I’ll ever honor.
Sonority’s a drag,
and the weather’s feathery implements…
Lastly, we consent to be collared
with a shock and awe kind of strategy,
and from there,
it stagnates, an antiquated metric.
One can only play dead for so long
before the scavengers start salivating.

-r. miller

8/9/17

Standard

An anomaly is approaching
the surface of this thought
woven from dry, brittle yarns
whose colors have faded
and ceased to captivate
more discerning eyes.
Of course the time
for despising has passed.
The downcast pedestrians
retreat into yearning, arms crossed,
pockets full of remembrance,
poking holes in the fog.
Catalogs of ghost towns
rest easy on the pyres
with which we’ll commemorate
the waxen moon.
We tread with irregular step
across these dunes of salt and bother,
false brothers and sisters
until the end peels back its velvet skin.
Within each of us is a hymn to the sea.
As the electric storm of our pride
expends itself in azure sputters,
the melody runs its fingers
through the sky.
The reply is vapor.
Needlessly, a hair is disturbed.
A paper rose is crushed.

-r. miller

8/7/17

Standard

Hold on to your delirium.
The diatribe mechanism
is gummed up with sunshine.
And the legions of cold sores
gathering in the distance
show no signs of accomplishing anything.
Pompous and ponderous,
I wrap myself in a discursive shroud
and push penance aside.
Walk beside me, feral one,
that we may walk as equals.
Already, three sequels
have been commissioned,
and I’ve grown numb to the weeds.

-r. miller

8/5/17

Standard

It isn’t like I had it any better,
but a wetter kind of climate
wrapped me up and took me in its throat.
I’ve been fatigued and bloated
since the beginning. I couldn’t tell you
where that is, but you can see it
with your fingers, so go from there.
I’ll take whatever care is necessary
to conceal my withered flesh from you,
my dreamy worm. Other sources
will confirm this, and cause you
great discomfort in so doing.
We’ll be wilted and wooing
the usual suspects in a minute or two.
Now – tilt your head back
and down this moody brew.
Chew the scenery, but don’t swallow.
Wallow in the weaponized filth.
Strange bacteria will keep us
from sleep forevermore.

-r. miller

7/24/17

Standard

Comes weak,
eggs at my fulcrum,
the push and permanence
grizzling all.
Harbor the mean
for a quizzical bearing,
leave it up air scrawling.
It’s my graft, understand?
To go trolling is one way
to uppercut,
though shut out
all my heathens,
all my heathens…
Scowled, creased,
and begging
for disarmament.

-r. miller

7/19/17

Standard

Coming down with the sleeping sickness…
The overall silence, unsettling.
By the table, not very tall, and unusable.
To sit I could climb… Noticed
a splash of color back in the trees.

Dread… Felt certain… They could see us…

Someone so remotely a person.
Any movement or sounds coming,
no reply feeling, driving away.

What if there was a body?

Away from the debate,
behind the wheel, my senses keyed up.
Full of clothing and dread.
A third against the window…

-r. miller

7/16/17

Standard

I listened and went along
with the delicate subversion.
Another version of the story
quickly erupted from the exhaust pipe
of a ’92 Buick careening over an embankment.

I get it, it’s like I’m something inadequate.

Yesterday glazes the mirror with apologies.
A camera preserves its forgeries.
In the engorged moonlight,
I can hear my thoughts whispering
amongst themselves, and I wonder
if they’re conspiring against me.

I’m positively perspiring!
Siring a mire masked in blue perfumes,
the taste of tombstones on my tongue.
A collapsed lung would offer better shelter
than this sweltering apartment.

I listened and went along…

Strong weed and stronger nausea,
take my hand please, before my hand takes me
on a backward flight over a land
of placid distraction that conceals
destruction in its belly.

Somehow, I can smell the fever…

-r. miller