reypulque

Yes, I was talking to the TV. Yes, some simple shadows made me weep. Eyes drown, watching a moment end. Eyes drown in unfathomable traces of trauma, the stepped on sentience beneath the bruised skull and the stippled musings of shattered auto glass. Poked and prodded, scanned and set aside. Well past midnight and my head is rumbling, no pharmacy open, no car to drive...
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When the urge overcame me, the desire to commit some act of terrible, enduring beauty, you were nowhere to be found. I caught fire like a prayer of grain alcohol and spray adhesive, like the soul of a flag driven to war. While I burned in unkind rooms and that eternal reach of night, your absence blinded me, blazing away in my mind. It was...
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It is always midnight and there are never any fireworks. The drift of headlights, the shift of the weather, the vain transcendence of a wandering sky the only details kept. There is a wide silence, scratching at the backs of my eyes, that sense that something bound to me wants out. Holding still, the whispered chill washes over me. Blood flow and all the worn...
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The washed out moon and the dry heave tide, the clatter of drowned stones sounding like teeth or sins. The wind rising cold from somewhere across the dark ocean, somewhere over the cold reckless waters it wails. The taste of salt, the taste of nails, the heart cluttered noise of another dusty clock. Memory hides behind the hills, it flickers in the trees.

The granite...
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The night idles, skies tinseled with whispers of some lost storm as the dull stars almost try to shine, almost try to find the last wishes left alive on the night of some special day. Silence drags its brush through the blinking streets, lit windows and quiet curbs, steel fences and holiday lights. Every shadow holds a spark, every prayer a pyre to guide these...
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depression

I move towards dawn despite the ghosts around the corners and the mop-water rain raising flecks and spittle. Sworn at more than sworn of I am more and more at risk. The night no longer loves me and the day never did. Only luck and blood reserve me any pity, and I can feel those begin to pass like any passion. Not yet an...
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The brown of the table where I spilled the bourbon blends with the brown of the bourbon itself. I can see a little lamp reflected in the liquor pool. Shift a little, there is a little me. Every accident has an antecedent, every reason a rose. Cold water for a chaser, and my life is explained. Another drink, another bottle, another flower dying slowly in...
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When heaven is at last abandoned, when hope is wedged between the dusty books and the distant wall, when the windows have lost any semblance of light and black mirrors are all that is left behind any curtain, we will dowse the light. Smoke will curl towards the ceiling, idling with all those lost wishes and bored spiders. That sting of dusk, that blur of...
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It is the lonesome vogue that settles it, this press of and proof of shiftless night. The stale burnt air lingers in the cricket-less hush, traffic sounds and restless dogs the only respite from this violent still. The pause of the black mirror of a window open to the evening, a motionless phone, the empty stairs. Stars fall in streaks and fizzles, you suppose. The...
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You were there first, barely lit, part fever dream, part open wound. The warmth of your palm, the pause of dusk contained in your subtle smile. That suspension of disbelief, the calm languor half light and half flesh, the way the walls devoured our words and our silences. Your eyes lingering, softly holding mine, this piece of preserved time, this thought of you, part memory,...
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Waking to the wrong colored ceiling, to the thieving shadows and the revealing strips of light. The garden is crowded, livid and green. Birds are doing whatever it is that birds do. I suppose the sky is the limit; something must be out of bounds. April was crowded with apple blossoms, honey bees and bumble bees resonating some frequency of naked hope is the too...
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