9.19.18

Your legacy shifts its weight,|
pouring its liquid gaze
o’er brazen streets,
beating papery wings.
The sky sings in overly
melancholy tones.
The bones of the beleaguered
narrative break.
No big. You had
no stake in it anyway.
You only wanted
to get your kicks
with a stick shift and light
the fuse of the fuss.
You always lived
like you were waiting
on a bus. Now
the bus waits on you.

-r. miller

 

9.17.18

This is how
we leave our shapes behind.
Midnight, and we find
ourselves colliding
in a cost-effective kiss
destined for posterity’s
unattended storage space.
The race is on, decisively,
divisively. Good things
come to those who weight
their instincts down with guilt.
Certainly, we’re coming,
but for what?
This droning chorus
of crossed wires?
These fires,
whose blue-gold flames
illuminate the nethers,
are tough enough to quench.
Wrench what’s left of me
from your ribcage.
I’d like to be alone.

-r. miller

9.14.18

Perhaps I’m too distracted
to find traction on this dull tundra.
Or perhaps I merely lack
the imagination to uphold myself
and the laws I’ve devised
to govern my desires.
Whatever the case, my bank balance
persists in its campaign to unnerve me,
and the single ribbon of light
that would be my guide
curves slightly to send me down
a more treacherous road.
Even my usual remedy
has me in a chokehold, I think.
But that’s the rub, as they say.
This is the way I’ve chosen,
and whatever dangers it discloses
are surely suited to my own tastes.

-r. miller

9.10.18

The awakening weakens
prospects, prophets,
and a singing persists
in the background.
Frequently, I falter.
Alter moon’s course
with a deft wrist flick.
Something sickening here,
something mauve and maudlin,
accosts me and demands
I announce my presence.
Not a lot to go on.
Iridescence of the room
crashes ass-first against
my gaze before blazing on
to the next finite space.
In case of emergency,
break down.

-r. miller

9.7.18

The braid of thought
has come undone
a moment too soon.
Hold me close,
before my anxiety
balloons and carries me
to a colder region other
than this dull living room.
Already, the constellations
shift in their sockets,
traffic putters on
too slowly for
the general taste.
My hands are dirty,
and I can’t just
rub them clean again.

-r. miller

9.5.18

They’d never hurt us,
though they wear their faces
like ill-fitting pajamas.
Out on the ice, nothing matters
like back home. It’s just
the putty has a way
of shaping itself, that’s all.
Are we not miscreants?
And are we not entitled
to a modicum of clarity?
All things considered, the house
was put to order, creepily,
but no complaints were lodged.
The two hours I’d never get back
moved giddily into a different
verb tense. Someone shouted “Fire!”
and the mood shifted
from green to yellow.

-r. miller

8.27.18

Had it not been
for the reckless change,
I’d have legislated more courageously.
I’m inclined toward puerile doubts myself,
and that’s quite a different story
than the one already unspooling
through the fog. Days retreat,
and I only ever get lumpier in the brain.
It’s gratuitous, how easily the vigor drains
from my gaze, thwarted continuously
by ignorant clouds and traffic patterns.
The shading of this moment
happens to be an agreeable one,
but let’s not kid ourselves
and pretend we have everything to order.
The border ‘twixt contentment
and disillusionment is a blurry one indeed.
Let my seed be the one that sunders
the entire earth. I’m worth my salt
when it suits me, rarely.

-r. miller

8.24.18

So the apology
has been duly bitten into,
bitter fruit that it is,
and a new task lays itself
prostrate at the foot of the bed.
My newish headspace
stinks like burning asphalt,
not my fault or anything.
I’m here only to observe.
The service-station ambience
is sufficiently underwhelming.
Some discussion tears
the floorboards up
in a mild rage, and amid the hissy fit,
I feel somewhat degraded.
Not the trip I’d been anticipating,
but worthy of remembrance
in its own peculiar way.
By all means,
keep writing down what I say.
Somebody ought to have
something to show for this.

-r. miller

8.10.18

Comfort breeds contempt
like nobody’s business.
That’s not why I’m bidding you
goodbye this gruesome day,
and I’d prefer not to talk about it,
so fuck you and warmest regards.
I’ve got to get my splinters in order,
check the thermostat
for signs of infection.
This ballpoint pen is a rather
invasive truth to be coping with
so early in the afternoon, I think, so
with that, I cast it to the fires
my dislocated youth left burning.
Only, the flames will be weak blue
when they peak, and my former truths
like so much diffused smoke.

-r. miller