By Bruno Talerico
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When someone you lovegives you a push,show gratitude. A push is not necessarilya pushing away,but quite possibly, a push in the right direction. © 2026 Bruno Talerico172/365
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Falling, falling. We can’t predicthow long love will last. Falling, falling. I want to touch you. If I touched you, what then?We could speak languagesof beginning. Falling, falling. Be my wild place. To be explored,inflamed, reframed, Falling, It’s risky.No chance to assess impact. Can we only love what we know?Or is love what we don’t…
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he plunges deepinto her infernomelting from the heat (© 2026 Bruno Talerico 169/365
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Miniature versions of mother quailfollow across solar-heated sand. Tall grasses oscillate,shrill wind whistles over ancient seabed. Lips crack, blisters burn,lungs labor as weary legs give wayto creosote mountain, ocotillo valley. Everything ends,sometimes sooner than expected. If I stop to rest in the shade of this mesquite, will the horned lizard hear my final breath? ©…
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I’ve always savoredbeing alone;refreshed,rejuvenated by solitude. Now that you’re gone,being alonehas a distinct sense of—divergence. © 2026 Bruno Talerico167/365
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Down the tree-lined lane, under the moon of a paradigm,all dressed in somber blackexcept the tattooed girl in pink spandex.Meandering side by side in pairs, or groupings of three or four.Chatting quietly, occasionally laughing.The only person in the paradewith an assured destinationwas the man in the coffin.© 2026 Bruno Talerico168/365
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Cracked mirror and fresh bloodstains,chic vampire décor.Zombies having fun.Let’s clap for the Wolfman. The madness in your veinstakes hold in the chill of the nightwhen shadowsare filled with doubt. Put your hands on your hipslet that old danse macabrewcreep up and grab youthen clap for the Wolfman. Dance and singto that graveyard jivebefore it takes…
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There is a mystiquewhen we listen closelyto the poetry of others. We hear not simply our own sentiments,but commonalities that intersectwith the webof their life stories. © 2026 Bruno Talerico165/365
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As seeds germinate in the underground,I am inspired to understand,in the luminous company of morose prose,that growth does not always occurwithin the light. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 163/365
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We all experience anguish,loneliness, and pain. As I relish the painthat fills the empty spaceleft by my father’s death,time and space losetheir sense of linearity. Gaps, jumps, and skipsnow definemy clock and calendar. © 2026 Bruno Talerico162/365
