One more narrative thrust.
Certain kinds of trust
ramble along the mind’s interior
without any introduction,
doing their own thing,
singing careless hymns.
More often, I’m startled
by the grim face I always seem
to be wearing when
the angels come jostling.
Time for a new hustle.
Autumn wives rustle fingerprints
with slick and sinewy
motions of the spine.
Further down the line,
my memory begins
to anthologize itself
and gets real dickish about it.
Just once, I’d like to sleep
through my alarms.
My anxieties.
The feeding frenzy in my chest.

-r. miller


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


The carnival sequence
unrolls deliciously
before the sad eyes
of the boho squatters
who wanted only
to get a grip.

The varied pictures slip
in and out
of one another, too fast
for anyone to see
just what it is
that they depict.

I’m back with my pants down.
It’s the modern way,
and I’m nothing, I tell you,
nothing if not modern.
This will only get you
so far, however.

I’d be happy to elaborate,
maybe over drinks?
Of course, you’ll have
my searing sneer to contend with
and I wouldn’t wish that
on my bitterest friend.

-r. miller