Broken or breaking offhand,
three of mind.
The thorn sucked bare belligerent.
Handles deeply, mismanaged,
the angels describe plain fetters.
We go offensive into the olden.
Steeply up, contrivance
for garnish mattering gray.
And glowing with growth,
reaping his bliss in livid spurts.
These good hurts
fill glad vistas of thinking.
Faces and inky quills distinct.
More than our whereabouts
blazing decor, flash the mask
when all of light drops dead.

-r. miller




Committed to bits,
envious teeming realism
in quiet derailed.

These upswing discouraged,
assailed by graces,
what the mouth can proffer.

Prospects tinge abstractly.
Others than gift by now,
at home the bladders.

Destroy my villainies,
screaming into one’s hands
as heat badgers and clouds bleed.

Bless the cold robots
we’re destined to be.

-r. miller



In the morning, his bones were tears.

Crossing the wires, he fears
the new contamination cozied up beside him.
The air of dismissiveness  divides itself
into segments of varying depth.

“Thus we are restrained,” he sighs,
“though exaltation gilds our veins.”

This all could have been expressed in song,
had my throat not been clogged with cobwebs,
had we popped the lid off
the insurgency we’d been planning
for the next big holiday. We could have had
any color we wanted, but the beige
settled in after only a moment’s indecision.

His precision waned
as both the moon and his brain waxed.
He drew his breaths only vaguely
in he humid dark. We threw down,
just to test the spark.
Midnight chimed excessively.

-r. miller