5/15/17

Standard

During the time of peacock failures
and soggy plums, a tantric wind
came a-hummin’ through the ‘burbs.
Faces lit like midday fireworks.
Skins were packed with lumps.
I was busy bumping and grinding
my way to a doctorate in decor,
but I heard this third-hand,
that the streets were marble lather,
that a gathering of the minds was taking place,
taking up space in a parking garage.
Some among them maintained
that all hitherto existing fiction
was as spilled milk upon a china plate
in the wake of this event. Others
gnawed on toadstools just to keep
from going mad. Meanwhile,
the wind kept a-buzzin’ and breaking
up the peace of the humdrum scene
we’d come to refer to as a Home.
Honestly, home didn’t stand a chance.
So the dance persists…

-r miller

5/12/17

Standard

You and your discrepancies…
Caring is optional.
My dispossessed courage leaves in rags,
the tatters of teeth.
You expectant, beneath a dumb sun,
tired whispers, but
how does your garden grope?
I’ve got twelve feet of rope
with your name on it.
Though I can’t recall your face.

-r. miller

5/10/17

Standard

We went to withers,
gathering what salts
and leather masks.
The tasks we packed
in baskets. Then
shoveled out.
It was a winter burst
bled into bother,
coddled like Christmas,
and accidentally more trite.
Night stuck to the ducts.
But we did this clever,
cleaving to a cloven hoof.
Sent every last roof
into a razing! And
when the hazing
harkened to our
surreptitious spelling,
we cut the quick
and blinked back the bells.

-r. miller

5/4/17

Standard

Now for a more lucrative pinch.
Cinch the waste a little bit,
you get the picture.
Whiskers the day.
Sharpening by seizure.
She nutters. Declares me
anomie of the state,
and percolates by measure.
Though… Off-base, admittedly,
most assuredly, most bitterly,
on fleek. Next stop
is the weekend.

-r. miller

4/30/17

Standard

Jaded for a time,
something of a monument
pierces fiercely soupy clouds.
Once a clodhopper, now a lucid youth
surviving his 20’s for the fourth or fifth time.
Just remember what they say
about asparagus… Soon after wavering,
the soiled masses will come
to grease my grin and fleece me
where I least need fleecing.
The deceitful show tunes never carried me
where I wanted, so now it’s off to bed.
It takes guts and mustard to get ahead.
I’ll take two.

-r. miller

4/28/17

Standard

Like a burning dirigible,
she comes guns in tow
to sticker me with shock.
She says her name is Emily,
but I know it’s actually
Elizabeth or Sara or Britt.
That’s the short of it.
And she smiles, half-mockingly,
half-rhetorically, asks me
how exactly I’m getting on
with my vices and iced glasses.
She’s a spectacle, she is.
She deviates with distinction.
Her lurking, lyrical gaze
bestows form to my folly.
And as she turns on her breath,
she lays her fingers upon me,
unpins her gown,
and grows ripe in the sun.

-r. miller

4/26/17

Standard

summer in your hands
most disorderly and in your eyes
in your heart where blood flows
dutifully but not for me

that’s what hurts isn’t it

and sometimes when I see you
polished and posed I want
to lean in closer but closer isn’t
a feeling we’re meant to share

that’s what hurts isn’t it

and usually I end in trembling
so this is usually with me
no better for anything and you
still not wanting me how I want you or at all

and that’s what hurts isn’t it

-r. miller