Kyle Muntz

Kyle Muntz is an Enigmatic Ink writer. From Amazon.com:
Taking place in a kind of "internal space," populated by living ideas, Voices utilizes broken typography within the context of an equally broken narrative to examine an existence in which identity and self have become, themselves, imaginary, but have allowed human thought and feeling to reshape the very nature of perceptual reality. Language is given a new, unfamiliar shape: complete freedom to explore the framework of an intricate semiotic landscape.



Excerpt from Voices


The rain
            came first. First
silence, then the rain, a (taptap) tapping                      
raindrops
falling quiet in the midnight streets droplets lying
            quiet
on the pavement quietly tires passing over
to smooth out the rain iron
                                    our sins
            into the floorboards
of the city down so low
not even the janitor
            remembers to clean them up
            any
more.

::::::::::::::::::

As if
there were order to this introduction. I could say I met her there but that would undermine the scandalous necessities of sequence. And
yes, I realize I’m rolling myself over, as if I could really make this
journey back in time, but I don’t think the rules apply when you’re alone with gorgeous girls
in
the rain. 
                                                                                         
::::::::::::::::::

I met
her on the vestibule,
seeing as she was there alone. I have an affinity for strange places, facing outwards onto the night. You could see the stars from there, but it wasn’t a good place to write poetry, though sometimes at noon the sun slanted at strange angles across the tiling, engraving the floor in skewed
congruencies of light, tangled in shadow.
Up above, the moon made faces for her. The emptiness pushed further away, a pressurized dilation, bowing down around the center. Every heart beat for her, every word to say. When it was for her, the world became real poetry, to be worthy, even for a moment. Maybe
she would greet me. A turn of the fingers, bright flicker of straining vibes. I knew she’d heard me, because she had ears, to state things blatantly, to name an attribute of her,
isolate the principles of her
altogether, culminating a pantheon onto herself,
otherworldly beauty
and
blatant rendition (changing space). If there’d
been wind, she might have taken flight. Because
                                    she could soar,
altogether. On the
                                    vestibule,
                        I met
her
                                                there.