Ghosts Are Thespians Too

It’s one of those nights just dark enough
to be alone in a crowded room of people
invented in your mind to ignore and feign superior,
but they all see you in the corner playing coy,
waiting to be discovered and have your plot developed.

It’s one of those nights dragging along
empty soup cans tied with lace to the back of the van,
announcing the celebration of your misery
to phantom party goers all having a much better time
in a world you created but cannot enter.

It’s one of those nights with too many drinks
to honor the deaths of brave conversation warriors
all gunned down in the line of duty, advancing
the troop to your bunker, throwing themselves at you
to cover up the impending shrapnel.

It’s one of those nights noticing painted walls
bringing you colors you would have never chosen
for this season or any, but definitely something brighter,
a pastel, something that welcomes a brunch with melon
that you ball with cigarette-stained fingers.

It’s one of those nights when the word
“lonely” misses the mark scrawled on your cheek,
tempting them all to aim, but you pull away,
scratch in a new irritation to help you feel
anything but the reason why your bed stays cold.

dreams that do

her name is a street sign-
green on moonless night,
seen through fog-filled light
beaming out as i pass on by.

given is the sound of kings,
calling out the phantom dreams,
falling forward into what it means,
looking faded rearview scenes.

a gift, a blessing, a curse, the same,
traveling, dreaming all this way,
gliding weightless, come what may,
another starless night
atop a sunless day,
another clue for me to find her name.

(remember)

trekking backwards into the future.
tracking footsteps, mine throughout time.
overlap the old and new and now.
disprove the value of repetition.
search the same streets
at the same times,
and quiz the lack of witnesses.
(and quit the dream of names)

for now (back seat hope)
…but remember

a name in a dream
in a drive that drives
a dream in me
of dreams of names
worthy of drives and dreams

Send home the dogs (find the words)

words fall long
past ear’s limit.
truths tucked away
in ticking clocks,
lying away seconds,
counting toward alarm.
ring bell, ring.
ring unheard across the room.
(ignore), shamble over, hit snooze.
waiting in stupor
for the next shamble.

ticking may deceive
but hours prove
what all good clockmakers know.

ring bell, ring
amidst a pack
of bomb sniffing dogs
searching for clues
about alarm clocks.

the dogs are tired
so let sleeping clocks lie
as dogs never do.
lie clock, lie.
soothe the dogmasters,
hypnotize the ear,
fall long the words
hidden in ticking.
speak clock, speak.
wake up, bark out a warning,
alarm the masters,
allow makers rest.
(for a change)

Pink Cake

She makes me a poisoned pink cake for my birthday or Valentine’s Day or Chinese New Year or some such excuse to make a cake. I don’t really remember. It was a lovely cake, brimming with possibilities of flavors. It was almost too gorgeous to eat, but I knew it was poisoned and she did go to all that effort to make it, so I readied my fork with eager anticipation.

The first bite killed me immediately, but the frosted confection was exquisite on the tongue- so creamy and fluffy. I very much wanted a second dose of heavenly death, but I had already died once and I don’t think you get to come back around for a second spin just to eat some more pink cake.

Perhaps if I did some great deed like cure cancer or invent water powered cars or bring a winning season to Lions football, but I did none of those things. I ate deliciously corrupted pink cake.

I think the cake is addictive, but one could never know, now could they? But I think that it must be for I lie here, dead on the floor, with her softly smiling with wistful eyes and cradling my limp body as if some picturesque ending to a scene in a movie, and all I can think about in this moment of desire is getting another piece of that wonderful pink cake.

live it love it, panic

check the levels on your mic
run and polish up your knife
chromatic

blood and bile to crave
drippings from a blade
didactic

shouting through the jeers
cheering on the fears
supersonic

cold and static out
warm in fleshy route
electronic

spill and spill again
carving out their glands
test and test with might
outside to the insight
fast and faster yet
spinning up the net
tangle, trip, deceive
keep them on their knees

save them from themselves
cut up, stored on shelves
hippocratic

cursing all you love
loving all the curse
loving all the panic