The light endows its luminescence on every slip and skin, cutting through the dusty constellations clinging to the beating of each breath. The fire fed and admonished by the breaking of each breath. So much scuff and tussle, the invoked hues and commanded posture, the press of hands and shine. The hour leans and the shadows loom, this brush of sense and flesh, the memory...
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It’s the hour of the wailing train, the hour of the seething night, the boys down the block drunk and singing corridos into the street. The words come despite the clock in my lap and the eye on the phone, the hours all old and alone, walking around in the yoke of habit bitching about the ritual. Books and hand me downs and talismans. The...
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Here I am again, the altar of god’s last ulcer. Here I am still smoking in the rain. The old words made of wolves and wood and the elders stirring the embers of the stars. The old words only seedlings, sewn of Babel and sea salt and the passage through the burning sands. The breath is always rushing off, the tongue always playing catch up....
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It’s not like I run the numbers. It’s not like I know the odds. There’re the habituated states of grace, the mind hitting all the marks, the senses all coloring within the lines. There’s the general presence of time on the go. The wished for seat at the piano bar, the eyes that find you from across the room, and the feeling that you finally...
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The sky takes its time to make its case, streaks about the atmosphere, gray swathes of condensation and the all but gone slip of moon. The foundation shifts and cracks, a temporary face to slow the bardo witnessed, the transitory always traveling in waves and breaks. The thumb bluntly breaks the frame, more evidence between the landed lead and scattered brass, the placement of the...
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Would that there were a route or license, someway to settle the approach. Would that there were a prayer or switch, something to shut it off. The image keeps reoccurring, sliding from flesh to flesh. The vision is always at the edge of seeing and imagination, the signal rerunning all the roads and ways. The power and the precipice, the picture on the wall. Relentless,...
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Cross my heart and hope to die. Cross my fingers to spare the truth. The hours go on marching by, the years retreat into time’s horizon, now ever and always falling into ash. The long drawn shadows, the long lost artifact. The curse of garden, the break in between songs, the stars you could see if the window’d only let you. The stars you could...
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The bass line seems to stray a little from step to step, the moment and the great ascent, a bare bulb and that spiral of smoke. A pause for old applause, then the rhythm takes a ride, from the haunted electronic ephemera to the blood and viscera and the ship with black sails. The symphonic rumble roll spread all around the orchestra, the gamelan musculoskeletal...
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The medicine almost doesn’t show, between the steaming mug of k cup whispered nothing and the flower that hasn’t touched the bloom. The dirty steel and tepid water, the dreaming and the fecund flesh. Sharp shores behind the eyes as the tide takes its toll, the breath a labored bellows. Some more smoke, cobwebs and textured shadows, the sashay of the music and the somber...
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It’s already outside the reach of sundown, the twilight full of cars and sirens. It’s already dusk going hard into darkness, the night all in my eyes. Again I sit with my back to the west, watching the world swallowed whole by its shadow. Again I let the song slip away, no longer fighting the tide of sky and stars. Back at the blank page...
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The single bulb, the window’s breeze, the ashtray cradling the rising smoke. Another measure of this quintessence, another port in the storm, the wind so cold the robe so warm. The wishes picked at so long they turn to wounds, consume the flesh as the mind devours the time, a midden full of wooden nickels and burned out stars. The slow tongue of shadows steeping...
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The night again, and the gutters crawl with whistles wetted and the leaping of loose light. The porch again, the light pushing softly off the wall, bejeweled with shed carapace and enmeshed beneath the covetous web. The smoke again, a rasp across the tongue then the curl in slow ascent. The steel cup, from black bitter mirror to blown steam to quaffed dose, a leaning...
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