12.13.17

Standard

What it’s doing to me
the lifting fragrance foretells
not a kind of doom
but a kind of kiss
and that’s the bliss of becoming
the essence essentially
backing out of the contract last minute
recesses turned dark by December
with trembling fingers
grasping the knot without knowing
and groping my hindsight
like I even give a damn

-r. miller

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12.8.17

Standard

Really, I could be
more interesting if I tried.
And more interested,
but that’s a problem
for another week.
I don’t speak so coherently lately,
that’s for you to decide,
and the color red
gives me the shakes.
Now discerning the aroma
of fried brains in the hall…
A scraping coming from the wall…
How shall I get on
with things anymore?
A newer, sinister mood
is coming up with the sun,
casting a heavy cloth
over my watery eyes.

-r. miller

11.24.17

Standard

What is it that looms beyond
these minutes, that ambiguous presence
whose splayed hand contains
the rain storms and metallic suns
of Decembers past? When
did I see you last? It might have been
in the corridors of a dream,
but I have no proof of this. Rather,
what I have is a sequence of colors
and their corresponding sounds.
This room, lit by the little miracle
of your once-being-here, a dull glow
steadily tapering into darkness.
I had some things I’d wanted to tell you.
Do they still matter? Surely
the fact that they persistently arise
in my gutted heart like frost
on leaves of grass counts for something.
Not much, I’d reckon, but
my own reckoning is of equal worth.
I’d like to look you in the eyes again.
I’d like the feel of your lips
against mine for the first time
and every time after.
I’d like for you to know definitively
that I’ve been thinking about you.

-r. miller

11.13.17

Standard

Distracted by the pangs,
not a moment in sight
to advance splinters.
Dawn fringes
astride the weight of the womb.
Jurisdiction matters in our life across the hall.
The wall reaches out to touch
where our faces have been,
and in a manner of speaking.
Nothing was my discovery.
It might be that description matters less than I credit it
and that these perspectives are but coarse strokes of brush
that manifest an unsteady portrait.
It’s true my eyes are water
and so too my fingers, thrumming
hard gloss of book
while energy degrades energy
beneath a beguiling moon.

-r. miller

11/10/17

Standard

I like the silhouettes
this uncertainty paints
across the floor. The
boring zest suffused
with shy contempt.
Translucent platoons of descriptors
come marching through
a door in my spinal column.
I’ve barely begun.

I am inured to the sun
and the grief
that lives inside of it,
and I shall dance,
in a somewhat
acceptable way.

This adventure is only a paragraph,
so you said, and
ran a hand across
my dreary scalp.
Then, we buttered up
the cobbled path
beneath our feet,
sliding wistfully
and wonderfully into crisis.

-r. miller

11/2/17

Standard

Coming up
ivory waters lavish.
Forewarning
of prize to ravish
unsightliness
and demure withering.
Wordless
and like.
Implosions of description.
For restriction
to spite
the untenable right,
leaves fortitude first,
a riddle of spit.
Valor, its
abject absence.
We undo by delay
the frightening tryst
and list
the ways.
Certain of our days.
Where limit our scope?