33

By Ray DiPalma

Sitting in the portico of a derelict office building
lit by the mix of neon signs from the boulevard
as serene as the glow from an altar lamp
the handcuffed man was alert
his reflexes fixed in an immutable cycle
because of all the secrets he knew

Individual traits and external expedients, pauses and omissions—
the imaginary tracks of compulsive reality and fine detail,
an investment in contradictions
caught between layers of purple and scarlet light
amid the eerie scent of cold smoke

To see inside, past columns in every direction—
cardboard and fleece, what else is there?
without meaning—or resolution—
what resolve? exonerate what?
thought left—emerging out of the moment
falling backward in suspension without the charm of unexpectedness
having run out of the moment to which it had answered

This article was originally published in Slake No. 1. To read all of the stories from that issue, purchase or subscribe at shop.slake.la.