At last we lock the forest.
Its chitinous chatter,
its verdurous verve,
put away for the night
beyond memory’s rough touch.
Yet children’s refrains
remain anchored to the surface.
A surface I swore to scrub
clean of all contamination,
exaltations, wanton filigree.
My work is never through, I said,
bowing my encumbered head,
bowing low and bowing long.
And the forest, foregone fiction,
locked deep in song.
-r. miller
What’s in a Poem?
Pay no attention
to the man behind the misery.
He isn’t all that much to sneeze at,
which for one who appreciates a goodly sneeze,
is as pure a tragedy as has ever been penned.
Good. Now that we’ve lain some foundations,
can we, what’s the phrase,
“take the edge off?”
I’ll have to consult my personal oracle on that,
but I’ll get back to you in a few stanzas.
Actually, disregard the previous statement,
and once you’ve seen to that,
you may disregard this one as well.
You can, in fact,
disregard any of this
at your leisure and your pleasure.
But first, I’m gonna need some help
with these word-devouring titans
who should have been in bed by now.
They look so cringe in this poor light, you know?
Such sloppy eaters.
All that putrid meaning
piling up in the corners of their mouths…
-r. miller
By Extension
Here you are,
and by extension, me.
Radiantly armed
with a fresh surplus
of harlequin skin, ripe
for digestion.
And the question,
of how to outwit customs
and escape, sinews
still savory,
into the hot
glistening wilderness; how
shall we answer?
Tenderness is key
(isn’t it usually?)
Only with a distance
sufficient enough
that it can no longer
touch you,
and by extension, me.
Smiles and similes
drool as one
in anticipation of
new assignments,
and who are we to agree?
Minor irritations
on the eyes of the wilderness,
the red itch
that causes blood
vessels to burst
and overflow her
restless gaze.
-r. miller
Lesson
The windy-eyed girl
has a lesson she’d like to impart.
But whenever she opens her mouth,
it isn’t words which come tumbling out,
but flabbergasted crows.
She’ll have to speak
through her fingers, I reckon,
though they haven’t much meat…
-r. miller
A New We
Shape up and shape on
for so is declared
remix season.
Way out of reason.
Shimmies and slips
as they each define
an aspect upon which
hinges a new we,
rather utmost but
mid-dangle.
Somewhere and some why,
beset the sewage angels
in living petrichor,
most able ruse,
ruminating on ruination.
At war clasping cold.
Be on the stutters,
swarm of details,
o eaters of the wage.
This be a blanched stumbling.
Rage omitted from rush.
Note the time stamps.
-r. miller
Salutations
I’d been thinking over all the ways to greet you.
Sadly, more urgent duties prevailed. Breaking
in new skin, for instance, to see us through
more difficult days. Storm conditions
accumulate at a solemn tempo
not-so-distantly, and me, wishing only to
acclimate, to be a part of them, too,
though by now, I’ve become a touch
balkanized, warring territories
laying claim to the same body. An event
so long in the making that the making
is almost all that I know about.
Out of all the ways to greet you, this
is certainly one example.
-r. miller
Making the Rounds
Oh, say, have you seen
the kinky new sickness
that’s been making the rounds?
The whole neighborhood
couldn’t be bothered.
Another opportunity, butchered.
Thank the blank gums
and flapping stares
that surround the perimeter.
We see the fresh parameters,
aglow and wavering
up from the cool shadows.
Meanwhile, the meat
of the episode softly begins
to sour. Sundown, aground.
Feels so sudden, doesn’t it?
I almost meant sodden.
-r. miller
After a Misreading of a Wallce Stevens Line
A little less of him returned each spring.
Bit by bit, each revolution claimed
some facet that, during its time, had seemed
central to the organization of his organism,
and, bit by bit, he appeared more frazzled,
more diminished than before.
After many years of such diminishing returns,
he arrived (for what would be the final time)
in name alone. Bit by bit, the name
dispersed, until nothing remained
for even memory to hold.
-r. miller
Full of Signifiers
Calling all scrawl – you’re leaking
meaning again, and this time,
it’s personal.
One too many chance encounters
with the business end of things
has reduced me
in ways I don’t care enough about
in the present.
Even still,
I’ll refer to the experience
when it benefits me.
“Take pity on my long misery,”
and all.
I’ll refer to it in the first person
I’ve heard so much about,
yet of which
I can say so little.
Hanging by a preposition
here with you,
like we used to
when we were desperados,
half-baked hellions
on the half-shell
with pockets full of signifiers.
From here, we make it rain.
Some Kinda Reverie
The most tuneful assemblages
attune themselves
to the tonality of thought.
Emerging when and whence
in colors much too difficult to name,
in textures much too visible to touch,
watch these little thoughts.
That there’s a catch
we haven’t been warned about
is well besides the point,
perhaps too cozy
in its position,
but a swell companion
through and through.
What exactly runs
through thought that
we haven’t already tried?
This pale stiletto, for one,
which bears witness
in its lilting blade,
is such an asset,
asserts itself
on our behalf.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 