It’s like you don’t even listen sometimes.
I don’t want pomp and circumcision
all night long, understand?
But later, I see your handprint appearing
on the glistered mirror

and it’s like garbage day again.
I can’t halt the weaving procession
of fever dreams like you can,
so they just keep on weaving,
cleaving to my entrails like weird ticks.

-r. miller

Good God!

Night offers up its tentacles
in recompense for the irregularity
of its functions. It goes from repose
to riposte in mostly seconds.
The profound weight of all things
considered starts small
and then starts swelling.
For we sell only a lifestyle

steeped in provincial attitudes,
the deluded gooey sense
of always being in the right.
Only we are capable
of keeping tight-lipped
about the slipshod sanctity
maneuvering like a creepy crawly
through the mud. A dud in the details –

this entails mucous.
Music. Spare change.

-r. miller


What’s more boring
than the Bourgeoisie?
The way I see it,
you can either fuss
with the feckless
or fuck with the free.
Tree-huggers anonymous
is always accepting new blood.
Tall buildings brood mightily
over placid pavement here.
It’s endearing almost,
but mostly no different
than any other metropolis.
If you listen real close,
you can hear the screams
of a most oppressive ennui.
Still better than the shit
they play on the radio.

-r. miller