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
Weather vein.
Miscast miscreants amass
in high heaven.
A feast of unleavened bread.
Dead eyes wandering
over the bones of the world.
-r. miller
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
The blameless are stultified.
Nullified nuggets of a past life
dripping with brine and swine flu.
We have these threads
we really must undo.
Underscored opportunities.
Dribbled discourse.
You sing to me in Morse code,
the song is overloaded
with the overwhelming feeling
of a severed throat.
I turn to face the fractured sun,
but the strength of your gaze
draws me back into you.
-r. miller
Milky lips lingering
on the fingers
of the moon
spring swoons
festooned
in festive arias
courtesy
the slightly
flickering stars
-r. miller
Slurp the serpentine grace.
The face flushed with fickleness.
A darkness seeps through
the pores of your skin.
Some burning within your breast.
Nests of nettles.
Kettle conundrum.
Born again, born again, bigoted chum.
Thumbsuckers of the world, unite!
A thin grief to bite down on.
-r. miller
The graveyard of our mystic task
blazes thoughtlessly
with a vapid dream of scheming suns.
The ones we took for nourishment.
We flourish with fervor,
foaming at the mouth.
There’s a southbound train of thought
running ten minutes behind schedule.
When feathers fluster rhyme,
it’s time to muster up
the fortitude to stand.
Hand our axioms over.
Handsome, and bearing
a warning against tides.
The way the weather chides us,
it’s a wonder we haven’t caved.
-r. miller
Subtlety slides right off of me.
Nervousness is nurtured
by splurges of saintliness.
Yet when my spine surges
with a mellow warmth,
I get a yen for yesterday.
A haymaker in the mold.
Getting old is harder
than it used to be.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 