reypulque

This is placement of the degradation, these are the words with the sun in your eyes. The signal beset with subtle errors and abrupt glitches, mistakes in the punctuation amongst the other unspokens and unspeakables, static stippling the map of the mind. Plodding disambiguation as the shapes reassemble and the stencils assert themselves, thinking the world aloud as we slip on fitting skins, our ways...
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The dreams don’t shake off with the day still hours away, with the weary work of shoulders and knees, with the clamber of flesh and bone. It is still, though not quiet. An atmospheric hum, the low growl of pavement and tires and the vague machinery that grinds down into clockwork and case studies, slabs and wires strung across the breath and stir of the...
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The stumble comes along with the stipple of the stars and the mumblings of mud, the lilt as the phrase does the falling, this ache displayed as idiom as fireworks crackle and the train declaims. So much comes in the blunt almosts and the odd sparkles, the glimmer just beyond the horizon line, the world revealed in flashbacks and jump cuts as the echoes fill...
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The ritual reiterates, the stagger in the shuffle, the gaffe in the deal as the heel toe slides and slides. The eternal bluff waiting on the call, ashes ashes then the fall, the gait beneath the gathered weight. The slow to the circle, the wobble to the spin, the blazing branch lit from within and spitting dizzy nonsense to set the world on its ear....
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The scene opens, or at least the line starts to unwind, the sense of a spindle as the stylus finds a scratch. Again and again, the metaphor hewn from allusion and skull static, the old song despite my lack of even a single turntable or the clout of some hefty hegemon. Here on the precipice of the vast decline, at the moment in the fall...
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The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the light by the mattress, now the meandering of the ash. For a moment smoke tattooed the space between the lamp and the ceiling, some slurred slogan, some mumbled oath. This the air, this the light, the sawed off end...
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It’s the next time your eyes meet the sky, the sirens sound and the dogs all howl. Such a sharp eared season with the summer on loiter. Such a sad sighted dream between here and the horizon. The numbers stand in stacks as the ceiling takes its time to settle, last long lights on emptying days, headlights in ribbons in stretches and strings as the...
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Again it is the slow sweep of green against the crawl of cloud and sky, the wind on its hind legs kicking up the dust, this strange drawling afternoon of shade and swelter set down in the particulars of these posts. A happenstance of rhetoric and idiom, of summer and sprinklers and the breeze borne whiff of water as the heat of the day gives...
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Yet another day, the front porch spilling smoke into the shifting afternoon, dogs barking and the music plays on with the show. The wounds and the wear even worse than it looks, this old campaign all carcass and guff. The inevitable seems to still, some event horizon cognition trick, and you fall forever in the flicker of a leaf. Bearing the brunt of dull curse...
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The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk and tiny spiders as the greens elaborate. The words lose the trail, tire chasing life’s fierce ebullience, assailed by the earthly urgings imposed by a yard lush with threatened labor. So we steep in these invariable aches and...
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It is there in the playing out of the song, in the fade of the light, in the knowing sway of the neighbor’s palm tree as it seems to pulse with strange prophecy. It is in the lone crow speeding low above, almost something spoken once, almost a wish warm upon the lips. The clock counts down and the neighbors home and aggregate, I sit...
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There really is no alarm, no sharp end to this report. I sip a microwaved cup of this morning’s coffee, I breathe and blow some smoke. I hear hear a crow call, I see two gulls— it’s the tail end of that sort of day. It’s mostly the dull thud of the body, the burdens of form and frame, the only thing that says my...
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