What’s Left

My time here is growing cold.
The unnerving that we are
simply a matter of taste.
They heap decay about the outskirts,
skittering days unlatch portents,
a rather ominous.
New modes of meaning are a possibility then.
We’d prefer to pat the backs.
Simplified gestures to match wits,
weather funneling, o porous.
You speak the vapors.
They make a witness to the seeking
and register piecemeal languishing
the happenstance of utterance.
I declare myself dissolving in the hum,
your wet heart, your thumping eye.

-r. miller

For the Grace of Agency

Counting the abstract, their labor congeals.
Until dutifully coordinated distractions
dismiss out-of-reach and the weighing phase,
omit me. Speech is to act.
You could try writing aloud.
Scanning the equidistance for closed signifiers.
They fidget us improbably, foresight whispers.
My head in the accident,
atonally bound, uplifts its own splurge
for the grace of agency.
There cartridge unloaded in broad.
Merging then collapsible fantastic.

-r. miller


A sentence is a sentencing
but in the way you think.
Can you picture yourself picturing?
Be impolite about it.
The right kind of wake-up-call.

Revelations after a hard day’s reveling.
He remained in the right frame of mind
throughout the wrong portion of an afternoon.

Relations got shifted or mixed up in the fray.
We got by purely on formal logic.
The naked eye appears glistening.

So much retains an aura of unfamiliarity
in the crepuscular gloom,
the room and its contents,
the mind and its sum.
Disaster no longer waiting to happen.
The worst part of the whole procedure
just so happens.

-r. miller


One day, the medications shift.
A continual vacillation
between uplift and downgrade
occurs at the level of the personal.
This is what I mean. A closed caption.
They withstand the fragrance, undulating.
We bear witness forward.
And one day, neurosis, a beautiful face
collapses, and the floor blurs,
space is made. There, I wind the perplexity,
the efficacious kiss, ’round the one
who grasps the perceiving instrument.

-r. miller


The reigning furtive
spills its weathers,
punctuating miraculous.
Stupendous we overlooking
baked flood overturning.
Avert the quickly witless,
stay thy wade.
Inheritors of the sequence
calmly, good of flow,
feeble drenched running
alone, o’er catatonia.
Canned grace,
we dip discursively.

-r. miller

So Much Foreground

By my muddled muddlings,
I am able to discern peculiar
particularities or particular
peculiarities, don’t matter which,
but all the same, I’m troubled
by the fringed sun’s rumblings
and the land’s heft and swell.
So much foreground
for but one mind to imbibe.
I’m least likely to consider
the consternation of time
as it moves inscrutably
and even less likely to be moved by it.
There’s a certain resonance
that barricades itself within
the inner ear, holding all
the other resonances hostage
in the meanwhile as they tremble
in their gaudy undergarments
and beg for whatever mercy’s
most in fashion. I call this passion,
Alternate theories need not apply.

-r. miller


I can’t tell of the lack of sleep
that fits over me like a glove
made from porcupine quills.
Of all the ills of this here island,
this one is the biggest.
Sometimes a home is the wrong foot.
And a house…

We’ll calculate that later,
for the swarms of dizzy insects
that are part and parcel
of our end days prophesying
have finally arrived by moonbeam
to eat up our entrails.
Please understand that
I’m only nauseated because
it’s my default mode.

I don’t want to play these games any longer,
the ones played with pins and needles
and deepening ennui
the color of a winter storm.
The violence just looks
too good on me.

-r. miller

Your Move

Donning such fishy skins,
we are duly, dully impressed.
New capacities are gearing up
for what is sure to be a hootenanny.
Sometimes, whispers smear the walls.
Slurp the decade through interchangeable lips,
and don’t forget to gild your tongues, O my lovelies.
Nothing quite like passing a fancy
through the mesh of sensitive hearts.
Hear me out – I am not a part of anything,
nor brought to heel by broadbacked suitors
‘neath a lavender moon.
All this caterwauling has me in a fix.
I tell you and then fold myself into the telling,
its frosty embrace burrowing
through my pores and into warm bone.
Like anyone would understand,
approve, or approximate.
Your move, syntax.
Just take care to keep these fetters tight.

-r. miller

On Empty

Drive me down
gently with discretion.
Dislocation is everything.
I’ve made a graphic mistake.
A big ol’ kick to legibility.
Marginalize me daddy.
Transitioning from verb to noun,
shaking hands and everything.
The weight of disgrace
contained within the pen.
Forget it, I’d save the fire from you.
Pull the snooze alarm.
No is a complete sentence.
Have you ever found yourself
struggling with, suffering from
the limitations of grammar?
These words were shaped
according to principles.
Sleep deprivation headache
and high blood pressure.
An opening is revealed in the syntax.
Sunday drivers need not apply.

-r. miller

Spring Fragment

Now in the valley,
we can have it nice.
Finally emerging
from the afterthought
into absolute sunrise,
feeling the glorious heft
of footsteps as they sink
into the warm clay,
renaissance approaching
and accelerating with fervor.
“Down with curfews!”
it seems to be shouting,
almost an incantation.

Things are improving of course.

Those sullen structures
whose mere appearance
seemed an act of oppression
have been given a fresh coat of paint
to match the season
that surrounds us like a wilderness
full of sprightly, bounding energies,
under whose lascivious gaze
we wholeheartedly liquefy.
Suddenly, the fact of being here
is not only tolerable,

but a miracle.

-r. miller