4.15.19

Standard

Within the dance of symbols,
intention presents itself.
As with anything,

we face an inward collapse.
In this fulgent, feral garden,
we clasp hands

with a void primordial.
Process this with pants down,
face up in a cloud of jargon.

-r. miller

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4.12.19

Standard

Certain contrivances cannot,
under duress, sustain the structure
of this my private mythology.
Condemn them to the scrap heap,
so says intuition. History’s feeble tree
has yet to come to fruition, and
there are some who say it never will,
not in anyone’s meager lifetime.
Now that I’ve come untethered
from first principles,
once so self-evident they sparkled,
the colors of my personality are free
to become as rabid as I like.
That’s the kind of liberty
that money simply can’t buy.
Or rather, undermine.

-r. miller

4.10.19

Standard

Where I sleep has gradually
been subsumed in surly dreams.
Time now to vacuum up the dust
and lust that enhance my surface layer.
Time now to rally the disparate tones
into a coherent melody.
I need space and time to despise myself
without fear of retribution.
I arrived at this conclusion necessarily
by way of an unbroken chain of disillusion.
It played out less chaotically than I’d hoped,
but I’ve coped with worse.
You can hear it in my garish laughter.
You can feel it in my rusted gaze.

-r. miller

4.8.19

Standard

Scary grave things, and the like…
We have our moments, to be sure,
but assuredly, let’s face it,
we barely peak.
The way I speak
of what our speech portends
doesn’t need a lot of music,
which means that this all ends
without a melody to carry me
back where the pines tremble
beneath a clipped fingernail moon.
I can’t believe the slurry swoon
I have to undergo
just to get my bearings.
That thunder-blow
to my impulse for honesty
really did a number, didn’t it?
Not that I’m dumber, anyway,
disillusioned mostly, and maybe
disengaged. But this can be
assuaged with a little tender
resignation to the context,
the madness it implies,
and the choke-hold that comes next.

-r. miller

4.5.19

Standard

Finally, the future is canceled.
Concealed beneath this too dry soil
is one of several spectators to this panic.
Well now, there’s something to sneeze at.
Lick the dust from my bones,
O specter of crass commercialism.
Old truisms don’t sustain us,
it’s the other way around,
as in age feeds on youth.
Dazed to extremity
in this wasteland of jargon,
let’s at least misrepresent ourselves
with panache. Smash post-cultural malaise
with a smile. Meanwhile, my inner vision
is eating itself out of boredom.
The kingdom of heaven’s been rebuked.

-r. miller

4.3.19

Standard

Shifting the several,
selective concentration
mimics dull and duty.
Aggregate beauty fetishized in tow.
Apologetic apostrophes in a row
beside the raw image.
Isn’t that neat or niceness or negation?
Ease up on the exaltation, champ.
Stamp the sequence
with a sense of boundary, foreclosure.
Up next composure
clicks into gear,
to steer all meaning
toward an ever deepening fade.

-r. miller

4.1.19

Standard

What does the light here
taste like? Sweat, inner turmoil,
wet rocks and bone. Nightly,
I pull the voices of dead poets
from this ashes this light leaves.
I arrange these voices
in a cacophonous cluster,
plug my ears with wet sponges,
and turn whatever words
that manage to break through
into lovely little lullabies, which
don’t taste like the light.

-r. miller