reypulque

a home abandoned

The root of identity is to forget, to be blinkered to the width and depth of things, to be a stranger to the bounty, and a ghost to the host. The untold multitudes in each measure make a cacophony the self would not endure unscathed if the curtain were always open, if the light were always on. So we are born, and...
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old stories, ancient hymns

There is nothing to these songs that cling to the slow curves of those green hills or drift like water over a taught belly or smooth hip. They rise and they fall, spilling from our breath like wasted carbon, vibrating in close bandwidth and green shades, dropping from our lungs and our lips these old stories, these ancient hymns. They thread...
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vox humana

They held my place in line so long that it began to seem as if I was lined up along with the rest of them, all of us together, being everyone each day. I can still see them, though they are farther than my sight can travel. I still see them, though this vision is merely a formality, a placeholder for some unmentioned...
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substitute soul

The workings of the world are witnessed in small portions, in tiny stirrings and dreamy asides. The way steam rises from the surface of hot coffee, the exaggerations matter maintains in our slip of perception. Phase changes and transitory states, particles leaping orbits, all the resonant frequencies that make existence exist. I set my jaw and feel the insistence of my teeth, even...
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That last note lingers, bluer than the brittle sky, sadder than the voice of stones. Mingling with the wind-chime melodies, settling on the thirsty withered leaves and the chipped and worried gutters. The day holds it high, brutal in its sad sustain, clean and homely and full of translucent bones. It sounds like the last edge of a rung bell, like the first bite of...
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Would that I could, I would make a living writing love letters. It isn't a matter of ability so much as of inclination. How I love to wish upon those falling stars and cherish betraying my every confidence. Slow chains of aching statement, loosed in a seamless shambles. Words of lack and of longing gracing some hoped for stranger, all wings and haloes and buttons...
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Smoke winds through the green leaves, uncoiling and climbing into the night. Gray and translucent it seems to shine from the dim light, the shine of the unlit and leaving. That radiance of that dismissive smile, the twinkle in and infants eye, the pure machine gleam of dragonflies in the dusk-- light loves some just so, just right. The waxy leaves, the unwound smoke, the...
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Oh for all the broken dishes, for the blood spattered walls, and the fireplace full of glass. The gleeful repetition of the painful, the pathology of self-satire that makes some drunks so much worse for knowing their limits. The manic edge of the deep divide, ignoring the cold shoulder to wrestle amicably with oblivion. Black-out driving and serrated edges and a Christmas made alien by...
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last cup

There must be something to sustain me, some portion of poison, some measure of steam. The gray pavement, the glowing sky, all the cracked slabs and set pieces that match this lapse. Heavy eyes, empty with such ravening hours, full of nothing but pollen and wind. Dreams that stretch out to the breakers, dreams that stretch out past these invisible stars. The heat...
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medicine

The finches pick at the pavement, the new day all around them cool and still and blue. They forage for what is, ignoring how wrong it might be. The fields full of lilies so far from these golden thirst-laden hills. The tapestry weaves with each desperate stitch, that hole in the throat, that shape in the gutter. It is soft light and pretty flowers,...
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This silence that rises from the worn floorboards, this silence that twists between the insistence of distant music and the full-throated hush of the rising wind, this silence that tangles between thought and memory sings beneath your skin. It is a quiet that lingers outside of sound, a stillness fixed somewhere between all the strings and keys, the fixed point that glistens when you listen...
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The air lingers in creased sheets, as close and warm as beloved flesh, precious morsels clotting in the lungs. I breathe in this too familiar dusk, the heat struggling to find its way to heaven. I take a drink of something that once was cold, that once was sweet. Each swallow lets a little piece go, the trickling theories of sentience fall clattering onto the...
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