A Conversation with Featured Author Adam Jon Miller
- Dina
- 4 hours ago
- 9 min read
Like a fresh pack of cigarettes, or a Zen koan.
Adam Jon Miller's over-the-top, sports-influenced and myth-flavored short story, "Coyotes, Man!" appears in our Spring 2026 issue and has made me laugh every time I've re-read it. I got a chance to have a chat with the author about his writing, hobbies, and father's driving skills. Enjoy!
Dina Dwyer: When I read “Coyotes, Man!” for the third or fourth time, it occurred to me that some might call it prose poetry, as the border line between the two is wide and fuzzy. I took a look at your body of work and discovered you’ve written mostly poetry, so, as a poetry editor for Thimble and a mostly-poet yourself, editor-to-editor, what kind of a state of mind do you need to be in to read submissions? What qualities are you looking for? Are they the same ones you try to use in your own writing?
Adam Jon Miller: That’s a good question. I am grateful to be part of the Thimble team. When I read poems for Thimble, I try my best to be in a quiet location and to take my time. I know how it feels to have poems out at journals for review, and I want to make sure I devote the attention to submissions that they deserve. Sometimes, I’m not in the right head space, so I step away. I try to approach each poem as a unique creation. If something moves me, that is meaningful. I guess I look to be moved by a poem. Other important traits I seek: is it creative/unique, is it executed well? What form it takes, I don’t really care. To me, a poem can be anything. When writing poems, I think all kinds of different states of mind can inspire a poet to write.
DD: Speaking of form, I noticed you’ve moved away from more strict formalist stuff to the free verse kind of thing that blurs the line between poetry and prose. Can you talk a little about that evolution? Or is it a mood thing—sometimes you really want to write a villanelle?
AJM: I have a few sonnets out there that haven’t been accepted yet, but in “Coyotes, Man!” it is some kind of weird blend between prose and poetry. I find it harder to write a really good form poem. I mean, the traditional forms, without breaking rules—to write a great villanelle or a great sonnet, but to also appeal to the modern aesthetics and language of our time—I think that is difficult to do.
DD: Yeah, a few of your other pieces like “Asterisk” and “a paradise called Loneliness” also fall in that gray zone between prose and poetry. What are your thoughts about classifying things as one or the other?
AJM: First off, I am not that smart. I love reading other poet’s discussions on these topics. And I know while I am writing whether something is more of a prose poem vs. a lyric poem. But those two you mention, and I love writing in this thin rectangular/square form where the margins are at like 3 or 3.5 inches on both sides. I love Victoria Chang’s poetry and when I started seeing her pieces from Obit come out, I thought, I have to try to write some poems in that condensed, very geometrically clean, paragraph form that looks like a square or rectangle. That’s how those came about. Also, a quick shout out to Ink & Marrow and Luna Luna for publishing those poems.
DD: Ah, very cool! While we’re talking about those pieces, can you elaborate on your style choices beyond the margins, such as the near-Germanic capitalizations and italics? They’re honestly what made me think “Coyotes, Man!” was a sports commentator talking but I don’t think that’s what you’re exactly going for in the other works.
AJM: I am very much still learning how to properly employ italics and caps in any given poem. I have a bad tendency to overdo it, and then have to edit back. Maybe I have a near-Germanic past life? I think the best way I think about it while writing is, I don’t let conventional English-style grammar get in the way. I think of the words in a poem as pieces of the whole, and try to play until it all feels complete, and interesting. Some words when they have a capital letter added that don’t usually have a capital letter—they stand out and feel different. You read them with more emphasis, like a person’s name. It almost humanizes a word. It shifts the meaning or connotation slightly.
DD: When I read “Coyotes, Man!” out loud to get that full sports-commentary effect, I thought of Chick Hearn who covered the Lakers for decades. He had a phrase he would pull out when a game was pretty much decided, which was in turn transformed by System of a Down in 2002 into the opening of their song “Chic ‘N’ Stu” (named after Chick, natch) which goes, “Ballgame’s in the refrigerator. Door is closed. Lights are out. Butter’s getting hard!” All this set-up is to ask where your inspiration for your writing that falls into this kind of breathless rapid-fire style comes from.
AJM: That’s so funny and so true. Sports commentators get away with the zaniest stuff. They can say something like that and it becomes like a trademark phrase that goes down in history, a cultural marker of sorts. There is this one college basketball commentator that my family always talks about named Fran Fraschilla. He says stuff like “He’s like a fire hydrant on roller skates with a bulldog mentality.” Like WTF!? Which all leads to, I’m a big college basketball fan. Can’t help it, I’m a Kansas graduate and was indoctrinated into the Jayhawk church—it’s a peaceful cult, really, with a place of worship, and a giant mythical bird as our false idol. This particular piece started as I jotted down notes while watching a game. I changed what was said, moved words around, and then created the rest somehow over time. I probably should be embarrassed to admit, as I am sure it is very low-brow—but television and film are huge inspirations for me. We always watch with subtitles on. Sometimes a subtitle will have three or four words in a row and I will jot them down, and then just go from there. Sometimes I’ll do this for an hour, then start moving words around and adding new things, like playing a game. And sometimes, like a fresh pack of cigarettes, a real poem falls out of the machine in the end!
DD: I think that’s brilliant, almost a found-poetry kind of thing. I used to do that with AM radio in my car—just set it to scan and write down clips and phrases to form a poem. Sometimes it makes a lot of sense!
AJM: Exactly!
DD: Like the single-celled organism I watched this morning on the internet investigating a hole, I noticed a gap in your publishing history of almost twenty years. Can you talk about what you found in those years away from sending work out? I assume you were writing, but perhaps you were consumed by other vocations.
AJM: I graduated from college in 1999, did one round of applying for MFA programs, didn’t get into any of them, and then fell into the wishing well. No, I think I became more focused on other things for a long time. Part of it for a while was a meditation practice to fill that gap. I have a wife and kids. A job. I did write a number of articles on architecture and real estate for a number of years which coincided with my real estate career. I never stopped reading poetry. And I love the short story form as well. In current times, I would say writing, and poetry, have very much become a sort of spiritual practice for me. Not like I am going to attain the highest wisdom, but poetry is magical and mystical to me. That strange feeling a poem can create in the mind and body where you understand, but don’t understand—I love that feeling. Like a Zen koan. I want that. More of that. To me, being a writer, makes all of life a mystery to almost be solved through the practice of wording.
DD: Let’s not forget photography. I greatly enjoyed your photo essay of the Chesterfield Mall in St. Louis (RIP) and other photos you’ve had published in various places. They have a certain flavor of longing and what the kids these days call liminality. I like to think I was ahead of the curve because years ago I taught high school English and did a whole lesson on liminality. I defined it as a period of transition that should be marked in some way with a ceremony or ritual, e.g. graduation, funeral, wedding, etc. What is your relationship with liminality and photography? What kinds of considerations do you have when composing a shot? What kind of camera do you use?
AJM: Photography is a lovely form of expression. And thanks for taking a dive into my work. That photo essay was like bagging up my childhood and having it published online as a relic. I was so grateful Pine Hills Review picked it up. I think I am in a Facebook Group called Liminal Photography. What is it about that strange place of the in-between? I mean, would Stranger Things have been so successful without the Upside Down? My current tool is a somewhat controversial camera—the Fuji Xhalf. Some photographers really bash it. It’s a limiting camera, a little slow, but I love it. It also is all about the feeling: the nostalgia for shooting in film. I shot the Chesterfield Mall pics on a Sony RX100 II. The common point between these two cameras is they are not considered pro cameras. Both are point and shoot. I sold my DSLR style camera a couple years ago. I’m no pro, but I like to make art with these dinky things. And sometimes Lightroom helps out. I don’t think much about black and white versus color, but just shoot a shit-ton of photos in both modes and hope something comes out. Although the Xhalf has a killer black and white film simulation mode—insert Dumb and Dumber “I like it a lot” meme here.
DD: I know you work in real estate in what I assume is a pretty vacation-friendly part of Florida. Tell me three unusual things about where you live that could interest a creative type.
AJM: I live in a beautiful area, but it isn’t my dream paradise. I try not to say that out loud too often while I am working. Many people save up their entire lives to own a property or to retire here. Three things I find inspirational/unusual about where I live: 1. The sand here is white powder. You do not snort it. But when you walk on it, it squeaks under your toes. It is actually Appalachian quartz and is very beautiful. It is so reflective in the sunlight, it hurts your eyes. 2. We are far enough north in Florida that the pine forests stretch all the way up to the beach in most areas. The only palm trees here are imported. There are large forests with trails, and we also have rare coastal dune lakes that can only be found in a handful of places around the world. 3. For a tourist community, writers still have creative outlets, such as the Emerald Coast Storytellers group and an annual writers’ workshop called Longleaf Writers Conference. Overall, I would say we don’t have the resources most US cities have. But if you want to sit and write a poem on a beautiful beach—we got that.
DD: Sounds really nice, actually. Florida is one of those places I visit when I have to, not because I want to, due to the humidity. I prefer the desert, but am stuck in this Emerald Coast of my own up here in Seattle. Alas! We’re never really where we want to be, are we?
AJM: That’s write (right)! I also love the desert climate. Can I say one more thing about inspiration for the “Coyotes, Man!”?
DD: Fire away!
AJM: My dad is an excellent driver. He once pulled out of a spin going downhill in Missouri on ice and I’ve never looked at him the same after. Anyway, that’s where that came from.
DD: That line cracked me up. Adam, thanks so much for taking the time today to chat with me. I’m so glad we got to publish your hilarious story.
AJM: Thanks, Dina. The pleasure is mine.
Adam Jon Miller's poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Yalobusha Review, Luna Luna, and elsewhere. A selection of Adam's work has been translated into Chinese. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and is an Associate Poetry Editor at Thimble Literary Magazine. Visit him at www.adamjonmiller.com. Follow him as The House Poet at @im.adam.miller. All photos featured here are his own.