reypulque

Oh, these days of grays and blues. Oh, this sad parade of flesh and bone. The world has a way of not wanting the very things it has created. The world doesn’t sift and sort. We are as we are, with choices and facts and figures we can’t fathom. We are as we are, within our individual parameters, our modes and our leanings. We change...
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The heart grows old in

greens and golds, the gray

streaked beard and

plans gone fallow while

the eyes look away.

At the end of the day

this gaze betrays the pettiness of

intention, empty hands

harden into threats and fists

while the gifted and the fortunate

course on oblivious to all

the slings and arrows living

milk and honey lives have

aimed their way....
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The day burns down until all that is left is night. Sirens and screen flickers and the piano swinging through the solo. Porch lights and lit windows staring out to the street. All the stars flickering through the tidal atmosphere, unseen ripples revealed in botched optics and the opacity of tendered clouds for currency. The hours spent below ceilings and between walls, warmth and shelter...
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The days grow darker despite the bright blue skies and the warm heedless sun. One by one the fruits of labor show only rot and maggot, the long sought grace replaced with grim ideation, the makeshift gallows waiting in the garage. Fantasy serves little purpose when that’s where we all live, the poison of words sunk deep as bones, the lies we live puked up...
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Sometimes it isn’t whether the magic is there. Sometimes it isn’t the mood or the mould that broke. The day spent dizzy and sickly, the consequences firmly camped out in my flesh, head split and mind pursuing strange angels and odd furies. The late afternoon dozed away, emptied like payday pockets, pain buying round after round for every ailment. The heart beats on, weak and...
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The words won’t do, and the day grows dark. The words won’t do, and the rain falls down. We wait for a signal, we look for a sign, we smoke em if we got em. It doesn’t make a difference, it doesn’t work out alright. Every day the awful grows, misplaced and utterly unnecessary. Every day the end won’t come. Just words to spit and...
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The late day sun still rages

despite the season and the time,

a balm before the calendar

tries to prove it wrong and

everything is wings—

the bold sparrows and the fitful doves

crowd the feeders and the pines

as the field beyond the fence

reveals the translucent host

glittering in clouds and legions,

stubborn angels of the earth and air

alive and shining and...
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There is no sky to be seen, just a ceiling textured with spider silk and sadness. There is no respite, just squalor and de facto servitude. The body goes without grace or dignity, only disfunction and decrepitude. Walking about upon open wounds, propped up on ache and ire, every other interaction sick and tainted with sorrow and fury. The music flips around on the floor,...
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The geese fly by

at the angle my heart leans,

the love that didn’t make it

different enough, the love

I have to close my eyes to see.

The sky scrubbed clean by

yesterday’s rain, wet earth and

the ghosts of petrichor frame

these wild gray givens—

wings and trees and the runaway

day trailing vapor,

the thinking spread thin,

lore and pain and all...
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Late in the day and it’s all gone gray, lashes of rain beneath a shutdown sky, headlights and the gasp of tire tread navigating the pavement. Traffic slow and accelerates, the shush of transformed traction carrying up through the open window, crisp above the steady sounds of the autumn storm. Mostly dry, I sift through the unspoken. I spend my treasure upon rumor and threat,...
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