The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the light by the mattress, now the meandering of the ash. For a moment smoke tattooed the space between the lamp and the ceiling, some slurred slogan, some mumbled oath. This the air, this the light, the sawed off end...
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It’s the next time your eyes meet the sky, the sirens sound and the dogs all howl. Such a sharp eared season with the summer on loiter. Such a sad sighted dream between here and the horizon. The numbers stand in stacks as the ceiling takes its time to settle, last long lights on emptying days, headlights in ribbons in stretches and strings as the...
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cah:
Wow, what a poetic piece! Your description of autumn and the emotions it evokes is simply beautiful. It feels like every word dances and reveals the beauty in the little things. Thank you for sharing this!
reypulque:
Thank you for reading!
Again it is the slow sweep of green against the crawl of cloud and sky, the wind on its hind legs kicking up the dust, this strange drawling afternoon of shade and swelter set down in the particulars of these posts. A happenstance of rhetoric and idiom, of summer and sprinklers and the breeze borne whiff of water as the heat of the day gives...
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Yet another day, the front porch spilling smoke into the shifting afternoon, dogs barking and the music plays on with the show. The wounds and the wear even worse than it looks, this old campaign all carcass and guff. The inevitable seems to still, some event horizon cognition trick, and you fall forever in the flicker of a leaf. Bearing the brunt of dull curse...
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The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk and tiny spiders as the greens elaborate. The words lose the trail, tire chasing life’s fierce ebullience, assailed by the earthly urgings imposed by a yard lush with threatened labor. So we steep in these invariable aches and...
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It is there in the playing out of the song, in the fade of the light, in the knowing sway of the neighbor’s palm tree as it seems to pulse with strange prophecy. It is in the lone crow speeding low above, almost something spoken once, almost a wish warm upon the lips. The clock counts down and the neighbors home and aggregate, I sit...
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There really is no alarm, no sharp end to this report. I sip a microwaved cup of this morning’s coffee, I breathe and blow some smoke. I hear hear a crow call, I see two gulls— it’s the tail end of that sort of day. It’s mostly the dull thud of the body, the burdens of form and frame, the only thing that says my...
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This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. The yellowed, the deft hand fading with the ink, the parsed telling of art and tender. The name a shine, a shell, a weight pressed against its absence in the air. Icon and invocation, fetish and ember, the...
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Weeds spill from the eaves and the puddles ripple concentric on the picture printed surface, rain changing the reflection as the day runs thin. The rain either a remainder of the storms that’ve passed or a reminder of the forecast prophesied by the local news. It’s blues and grays and scattered droplets out here in the sticks and stones, a call and response from the...
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Each day some half down arrival, each day a hapless waving goodbye, the day because, the day despite. The slow spun sun and the long stretch of shadow, the greet and meet of leaves in the gutter, the promenade of parked cars awaiting the next set of actions as the light walks its beat. The ache towards and the ache until, the ghost at the...
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It’s not like the words were waiting, the sheen of rain, the falling sky. The grinding down of girder and slab and fragile lives, the flattened affect gray dusted face of genocide. The hurtling of empathy and epithet, gnashed teeth and curses while even the pleas for mercy are criminal, the clampdown naked and seething in its appetites. It’s not like the words are coming,...
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Comes to the lay of the day I declaim the decline smack in the countenance, the sun leaning hard against the west, eyes crinkled with age and smoke and shine as I trail symbols on ley line minds. The drowse and the drift, mercilessly incarnate within the relentless mechanisms that keep time, the countdown and the alarm work their teeth like charms. I slouch and...
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