I know only of the way it was read to me,
in droning whitewashed monotone.
The table of contents cracked
in six or seven places,
divisions widening with each new passage.
Somewhere, the message
struggles to keep its head above the water
forcing its way through
to the sullen core of the experience.
The water weighs on me tenaciously
as it adds to nothing but itself.
The message drowns despairing
as was foretold. And surely
the old heads atop the heap
will seek their advantage here,
as they always have done
with varying degrees of success and subtlety.
But now the years have stretched
their skin too thin to conceal
their weathered cranial bones,
and all can see finally, that
such bones are meant to be broken.

-r. miller

Soft Currents

Halfway to the halfway point,
she ups and puckers her mouth
at the scrolling pixelated stars.
Nothing like a bath of backwoods night
to rinse away the day’s debris,
the smudges on the soul.

She steals away a moment
to loll among the whispering grass
and dumb drunk flowers
and the moment reclines
across the hours with a hefty sigh.

She takes in the fragrance of that breath,
feels high and mighty as it moves
deliciously through her lungs.
All her mother and father tongues
retreat into the bruised warmth,
but she doesn’t feel abandoned;
on the contrary, soft currents
of liberation electrify her very being.
How sweet it is! not being compelled
to conceptualize or categorize.

With a smile, she rises
lights a cigarette,
and sets herself in motion, a comet
cracking open the dark
with a rapturous burst of blue.

-r. miller

Shroom Party

Cutting the quickness with a lick,
you force a smile through
the sieve of distaste.
After making haste into a virtue,
what colors will our errors assume?
This cold room seems to stretch
10 miles in all directions,
and you flounder in the center
as it softly dissipates.
Childhood lust silently abates,
but the new calm that installs itself
in that once tumultuous space
is the perfect climate for a more refined
but wilder brand of lust
to begin gather its forces,
blue horses of pure electricity.
How long have I been under
such weather anyway?
That causes mere moments
to seem endless and whole years,
the simple flash of a camera?
And yet, from an aesthetic standpoint,
no composition is more pleasing
to the wicked heart which motivates me,
urging me onward, downward, wayward,
into unabashed ecstasy.

-r. miller


Let’s leave the leavening
out the way of harm,
an arm to candle us to victory
should shadows surpass.
Like the open mouth of an underpass,
we welcome all the sleeping detritus
who would seek us.
In cellular rains, we tweak
and become dangerous,
dissolving in the distance
between point A and the sky.
I’m turning on my axes to grind,
finding a task in coping.
I’m burning cultured kief
in an effort to maintain hoping.
Sudden air of alacrity
rushes through once withering lungs.
This we can encapsulate.

-r. miller

Unscripted Loss

Retrograde retrofitted
unscripted loss of sequence
seeming in bloom
and the haze of lazy wishes
curling ’round my throat
small talk accumulating
in the bare space
where some distant day
I’ll come to

-r. miller

The One Collision

The semi-vanguard is vanilla
coke in the ear before death.
Near what wreath of chic damp bone
idles plangent longing for the front.
Tail me you cowards. Garner dutifully
well-proportioned praise from your
unmended gardens. Like my whistle
willfully shrieks in my corridor.
Namely, to a fault, the door
leaps from its hinges and plunges
into bright bastard horror, taming
all haggard entreaties and stamping
the rusted dust dirigible.
Now look at ye mighty,
we absolve and dislodge,
we abscond and disinherit.
I have the one collision
that can assure our safety
in this pocket of rock.
Weep for me at the last exit.

-r. miller

In the Small Hours

Fanciful and varied
are the voices trickling
through the screen of disassociation
which so veils my brain.
Some are tinged with doubt,
while others bring with them
recollections of more lucid moments
than this one gorging itself on darkness.
I’d like to capture them all
in clasped hands if I could,
but they’re too quick,
too many.

-r. miller

From the Quarantine

Out of practice,
observing and absorbing
what emerges from the quarantine,
my previous representations
slip off of me with lukewarm determination.
I’m saving all my exaltation for a rainy day,
when things might not be so easy,
a day when fate’s breezy hands
glide over me with their usual splendor.
Tender resignation spreads
like warm breath on a window pane.
The landscape looks lethargic
in a light like this. And in the moment,
it feels like I could snatch the whole damn mess
up in my trembling fingers
and mold it to my liking.
Something a bit more striking to behold
than this rumpled blanket of disease.

-r. miller


Turnstile frogs out,
but we are blisters.
Cold swallow of Listerine
two times toking the way back.
I up and sizzle
and prick with filtered light
raving through brain window.
Tip a fair share
over so-called precipice
with my wonder
a miracle to the garbage caucus.
Fresh needles on the timestamp.
Fresh needles full of solutions.
Turnabout busted
and we ante up the unsolvable.
Scrum is where the heart blathers.

-r. miller