Beleaguered blood runs desperately,
awakening a dream of having.
Deception flows from speech
to speechless seeming.

Awakening a dream of having,
these happenings hold us firmly
to speechless seeming.
We lose ourselves in luster.

These happenings hold us firmly
underneath a gentle gaze.
We lose ourselves in luster,
reemerging in diluted form.

Underneath a gentle gaze,
the world grows wide with worry.
Reemerging in diluted form,
old hatreds quietly disseminate.

The world grows wide with worry.
Beleaguered blood runs desperately.
Old hatreds quietly disseminate.
Deception flows from speech.

-r. miller


It’s this dumb dark
you carry with you
that shreds my disposition
and threads it through
the keyhole which affords me
my sole chance
of even glimpsing you.

I too carry my own dark,
but in stark contrast
to the courage I perceive
in the way you carry yours,
I hold mine at a distance,
afraid of what might happen
should I hold it too close.

-r. miller

Pillow Talk

We walk a flustered road.
Intimate, fractured.

Beneath a panicked moon.
The secret swoons…

Damaged arpeggio of memory.
We feast, articulate,

on masochistic vibes and falter
at the conclusion of the meal.

You beg… Stealing thoughtfully…
Portions of disquiet… Broken bread…

And those ticks on every vein…
Wonderfully woeful

and wrenching flowers from their beds.
Vomit stains the space in front.

-r. miller

First Movement

The body is moved by its marvels,
mounted atop a white
and greedy mouth.
From the south, an uprising surprises.
Savage rumbling surging
through the fetid cave.
As if gravity could save you…
This is the release you so solidly crave.
And the mouth becomes a marsh,
the marsh becomes a stew.
You retch. Hands clutching
at your harrowed gut.

-r. miller


Prayers mark the way backward.
They thrust silvery lights
up out of the parched soil,
and the light lingers like poison.
It’s time for a change of clothes.
The hierarchies are disfiguring.
There’s chance in the chants
of the children and it’s reacting
strangely with the tumid heat here.
I only wanted mercurial tears.
But that’s beside the point.
The wind hurls me against
clarity’s burnished wall.
I wither on impact – a second rate ecstasy.

-r. miller


We like the way it looks,
the crooked portrait of aging dawn.
It came on slowly, like a yawn,
and pawned its supply of disfigurements
off on us, which we reluctantly accepted
as a sort of peace offering, but one
whose rationale was not immediately apparent.
After all, we’d barely been introduced.
What was your name again? What do you do?
A thin blue haze settled on the avenue
and we breathed in its fumes,
filling our lungs with a bitter sweetness,
something like nostalgia, but a nostalgia
for some discordant era we never lived through.
Wrapped in that eldritch comfort, we sunk
deep into a slumber filled with dreams
whose unsavory meanings we haven’t
yet coped with, and upon awakening,
we were stupefied by how greatly everything
had been altered, faltering as we rose,
wondering whether or not we fit into
this new order of things.

-r. miller

To Arms

Limitations and expectations
flood the ragged plain. We scan
the membrane of a thought,
a thought which burst unannounced
through the celestial door
separating the physical
from the rational.
Now’s the time for war,
for motion, for velocity.
Pretty words dot the landscape
that unfolds before our eyes
like a tattered flag.

-r. miller