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
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
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
Dust collective.
Collateral damage.
An image of ourselves
in retrograde.
We fuse days
with one another
to create a crazy quilt
of stilted satisfaction.
Our dreams
provide no traction
on the slippery slope
we weave.
-r. miller
Drained sinuses.
Lust spins in solitude.
Over pale plains.
Pockmarked veins.
An explanation of a doubt.
Today is drivel.
-r. miller
It was the quickness
with which you cut me to shreds,
the way I bled ferociously
over the flowerbed of our love
and fed the soil my secrets.
It was the way the regrets
came easier than you did,
and the way that, when the sun opened up
its hairy mouth to sing, I felt
the vague sting of a second thought.
-r. miller
Get a load of my swag.
Get a load of the baggy eyed bullshitters
dragging mountains through mounting heat.
We fall to pieces in sweet remorse,
horses built from glass.
The rain acknowledges us in passing.
In the mass of days ahead of us,
our mirrors start to bleed.
-r. miller
