Bits of Myself

Music blooms in the glistening
storm like a reflection
upon the surface of a window
stained in libations of twilight –
purple and darkening orange.

Secretly a man exceeds
his costume and predicts
a renaissance of authenticity
to come staggering forth from
the shut eyes of infants.

Slow droplets of song arrange
in irregular patterns upon
my hair sauntering into the furrows
of my forehead, and beneath
an awning I spread

a haphazard flame
in my Jean-Paul Sartre eloquence
coat, discarding a series of names
to the parade of traffic
and with them, bits of myself.

-r. miller


She sings through my mouth,
and my mouth is a brackish lake
teeming with the lust of the tropics.

Only this time, I’m catastrophic,
my tics have taken on
the token qualities of a smoking gun.

One day shouting over another’s hair.
It’s fulfilling to care. It’s a travesty,
but it’s the air breathed through light.

Not her fight, but mine, or
the spine of a snail. I am not my ailments,
nor are my ailments pride.

-r. miller


I am a typhoid mass
eating a wrecked plain,
sifting a discus through
a Dharma groove.

Viscous chic.

The mosaic scatters.
The fallow liquefies.

Give it another couple
of weeks and the whole
acre will transmogrify
into a septic plot.

What we in these parts

refer to as
a Charm City Facelift –

-r. miller