reypulque

The flame separates the stick of incense from its soul, smoke curling upwards for a few laps before departing on the ferocious winds. The dull intention and the empty heavens torn silk before the exhausted earth and boundless sky turns again to extra words and clumsy embellishments. The feel of the fool’s nipped heel the whole of my identity, a tattered spectacle, hapless and chained...
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The tide of dust slowly swallows the static and the forgotten. Music seeping through the rat clambered walls, the separate faiths of song haunt the house while the ubiquitous bass thumping down the street. The low keeps diving and the ghosts keep driving nails through my skull, the last contrivance of reason long since hacked to pieces in the basement of my brain. Mercurial turns...
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Break out the boxes and blow the dust off the ledger. Open up every seal. Dig deep beneath each surface, pry loose the floorboards, slice through the trembling flesh. Slow cancers and ancient grievances, love letters and other curses, all that is buried rising with the least graze of the eye. Intention loosed and memory jostled, we wake in cold sweats and anecdotal frenzies, the...
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Most of all I’m sick of the make believe. The small talks and glad handings, the alibis and misdirections. All the people I nod to who I’d just as soon not see again. The chitter chatter while the sickness metastasized and death kept heaping it on. Pretending that I do anything but cause pain and delay the inevitable. Pretending that the words were anything other...
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It’s something that falls between the boundless blue and the insistent sun, the atmosphere laden with heat and restlessness, a wound between worlds forever bleeding out. Neither hunger or appetite but the tint and timbre of every sense felt as the heart keeps circling its favorite aches, the body in painful decline, a knot before every breath. The knowing gnawing away at the aspects and...
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The life that you live goes by in inch and hairbreadths, jostling you along the walkway, throwing elbows while breathing down your neck. The life that is claimed moves in years and miles, a road winding through the mountains with barely a mention of the scenery. It has a flag and a bible and a tradition to defend. Honored ancestors and stubborn antecedents to turn...
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The spring winds spill like cast off angels, tumbling terribly on down, the day so adept at taking its turn. Long, bright sun slick days painted in ominous golds and greens, blue as any impending doom. The low end of the harmony the blackened foundation of the glory of the firmament. Mother Mary wailing at the feet of salvation, the gift of a death unfit...
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By the time I get around to saying it, everything is suspect. By the time it’s written, it’ll never be read again. I don’t see all the colors, I miss a lot of shapes. The form I see is the one on the wheel, the first flash still pressing through. I never know what it might look like lately. The road opens at the least...
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It takes a moment—

maybe two— mouthed one thousands as

day catches up to the night,

the patched up tongue and

hangdog eaves riddled with

webs and smoke, the incense

without an altar, shoeless

gods and hungry ghosts

eying the lip of the cup.

Dribbling over the rim, beading

down the seeming skins, dribs and

drabs missed by the darting

licks of language, evidence of...
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The words are left to set a spell, heavy in the ephemera, gnawing at the grace. The heart keeps time in wishful thinking, beating back the tide. These glad rags and quick hands only slap boxing the half of it, the rest continuity sacrificed to the mystery. Eyes closed, eyes closed— somehow this has become the road, the figuring on the wrong side of the...
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The day grows old and the gray sets in, the chains of rain and the overcast ocean. I grow old in dull, unwanted moments and phases of the moon. All roads lead to the gallows, all gods are devils in the end. Alibis and excuses to free the beast locked in your heart. Sophistry grinning from your idiot smile, teeth bared in confession of your...
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Again the winds grow cold, again night falls fast. The window open, the lights left off, the day does like it’s going to do. There’s no one loved, there’s no one true. The proselytizing and the platitudes play on, the kingdom of heaven and all these Candide knock offs. You can’t throw a stone without hitting some idiot who knows the secrets of the cosmos....
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