reypulque

my least inkling

The smoke has long since gone, lost as it was to the wind and sky. The dusk billowed in out of the open sky, and the trees caught the last of the light. Even the cement changed color, laying right there in the open. All the reasons mingle with wishes, every certainty eventually torn down.

I am a poet of complacency, measuring...
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famished

Those cold guns, her heart fraught with wonder. That painted on threat, the fact of abandon. The voice just below the water, before the light. The shadows pool just before seeing. Everything stretch and cause.

Could have been the moment wanders, that idle collide of fresh chrome and suspense, that distance only bridged by waiting. The possible every shred of evidence, the dowse and...
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beneath the kingdom of shine

This world is so quick to disappear, to turn around and change its stripes. Familiar streets bend and split, sweating shadows, spilling light. Driving home the freeway changes again and again. I lose my bearings on roads I have traveled thousands of times. I lose my self a little amid the tail light constellation and the strange passages beneath the...
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pretty on the outside

Dawn finds Orion on his ear, his libidinal tilt spilling into the day. The flocks make their margins, wings adrift, the travel from dark to light spreading through the air. Children have decorated the sidewalk, rocket ships and pastel hearts. Children leave their evidence strewn all around the block. The world is theirs before they know it. The world is theirs,...
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tenderness

There is no consolation in the color of her eyes, stained with moonlight, staring at the dark. There is no comfort in kisses whittled from spare letters, that postcard alphabet offering, that false prophecy. There are the hours that come and go unbidden, the ethereal passions and the heavy clock. There are all the lingering gods and their dirty symbols, pressed like coins on...
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biography

The biography of her pale flesh given over to the color of the blinds, the whispers of command. Written once just so, then abandoned with out a whim. Made one way then painted like another. Making the seeming so so unseemly.

The word play only got worse, a bad script tidied up by so much truth. Fact after fact filled the room, until there...
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looking glass

Tell me what it is, and I will find it. That is the promise of reason, the final say on location. Conductions and currents as alive as time. Change is the seeing of the system as a symptom. Change is all the acceptance of disease. That pin point realization that seeing is the wound, the sickness itself. That pointed waste of mirror.

The...
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the other day

There isn't any point. The sun makes the skin into tatters, the day turns the bones into brick. The river overflows or turns to muck, the cat in the box either lives or dies, kisses will complete or deceive me-- it isn't in me to choose. There is a tempo to the traffic, there is a sway to each lane. That I...
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softer still

All the lights are out, and the bloom of shadow has grown past abundance. The darkness spills through the windows, it seeps down from the ceiling and up from the floor. This house now built of blindness. The very air bruised and blackened. The saying given up for breathing, the words lost in so much ink.

So much for the rising silt of...
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misplace

So the arrow flies blind, so the day goes dark, so the bets are settled and debt let go. It is beggar's portions and steely mercies, the thankless tasks and the pretty songs. The time was lost before I wasted it, plastic keys and open wounds. The prayer shawl persuasions and the devotion of Job. Even the ache is a small one, bound to...
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so faint the tune

Grant that this trouble was nothing new. Grant that these were the things written first on walls by firelight. Heaven watches and remains near to blind, all across the salted vastness. The moon went somewhere else to look for you. Dispatch all your luckless messengers. Write this in your own hand.

It is in this sleepless notation I seem to see...
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sentiment

It is there in this reaching, hands held out, palms up, cupped together as a begging bowl. The reflected ache of the gesture, the call to prayer and the yard rife with ghosts. The stars rippling in the wind, branches scraping at the sky. The smell of smoke and sweat, the litany of entreaties. It arrives in this wash of memories and mistakes, eyes...
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