reypulque

Some nights the shadows gather, some days the sun won't call. The grind of nameless days, the set mathematics of seamless obscurity and alienation that grants you false names and forgets both virtue and vice, the claim set upon your soul by liars and cannibals all work you like freshly sharpened teeth. Like stakes destined to answer that fudged question of eternity. Semi -colons and...
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Sweat clings, the remainder of work, the effort spent all but invisible now, clouds of smoke and vapor. Salt and dust and scant reminders of insects that thirst for blood. Itches rise from ashes, to remain only vaguely scratched. A whole miasma surrounds each morsel of time, me blind to all but sparks and tailings.

It is a causal relationship, casually ignored, like the violent...
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She went away, leaving with the autumn tide and the guardian moon. It was a leaving that left me longing for a phase, a changing of places that would wind up all the same. The intermittent re-enforcement common to all romantic thought. Then longing grows longer, widens the wander until even the most magical of daily notions snaps. Soon enough every sentence I hung on...
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Is it in the slick endowment of flesh, the tide of fever that abides the balance of blood and humors, the stippling of sweat through sheer cloth? Is it in the ebb and flow of bone and muscle, the tussle of these wrecked continents, these hard consonants and feather soft vowels? Is it the ghost that rollicks through fine tethered features, the perfect roll of...
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The fever rages despite the hour and the obvious faux pas, mindless of the meter, heedless of the rhyme. Her eyes burn, the color of bad dreams and forgotten songs. Her eyes blaze that much brighter unseen. There is no reason in the depth of the draw of her natal sway, only alibi built for kingdoms of mayhem and slaughter. She is that road laden...
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Her beauty penetrates, it arrives like a wound, like a spike in sensation. Just seeing her you curse, knowing somehow her existence demands your breath, owns that reflex to speak. There is an ache that arrises-- blooms in spring, fire from the earth. She radiates past the boundaries of photograph, beyond the stilled instance of your wishes and your witness. Seeing her resonates with-in you,...
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The weight shifts and the fire is drawn deeper into the ashes, sifting through the tired webs of breath and lung. An exhalation births coils of smoke, rising gamely, writhing in the seething winds. It is a meditation upon the transitory. It is a meditation upon the motion of life between the worlds.

Dusk settles and the storm just misses, and the trees sway in...
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It is in the way things unwind, in the way the world seems to burn just when I begin to miss it. It is the words or the fumes, this sense of loss that imbues everything with some sacramental preciousness. The act of thinking making something still so dear. I miss friends, I miss the dead, I miss deeds, I miss speaking. I am so...
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So strange to praise beauty, to honor that which attracts. It is like praising the sky because you like it, like praising your tastes and feelings. Pulse and plumage, weather and feathers and the telltale toll of time's passing: all of these lade the taste for beauty. Evolutionary imperatives towards art and patterns, the hunger of ancient genes that simmers beneath all these words and...
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That lost moment arises in strange and tangled moments, the feeling of a kiss, the electric memory of mingled breath and certainty burning in the soul you keep forgetting you believe exists. We haunt our own lives, as distant from our skins as the dead stars and crumpled myths, walking cold streets with decades of ghosts clattering in our wakes. Time and tenderness natural adversaries...
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The air beneath the tree is thick with the crush of apple blossoms and the heavy whirr of bee's wings, flying out their unwieldy patterns, their unlikely flights. A drizzle of dour serious honey bees, seeming so precious and rare, dusted gold and motorcycle black, working each limb, each blossom. The thick bounding flight of bumble bees, as big as grapes, as black as spilled...
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Spring shows its hand a little early, what with the birds all a twitter and swarms of glistening insects creating clouds in the sky. Peach blossom pink petals caught on the wind, awaiting some buzz or luster. Kids caught in the dumb scrum of childhood, laughing, squawking, spilling through the street. The corner boys play gangster, practicing their sad thousand yard glances. The night cleaved...
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