The plastic saxophone covered with Sesame Street characters... Real

The small switch set on "off" while the saxophone came to life whenever it felt like... Not Real

The light fixture in my bedroom... Real

The attached ceiling fan... Real

The first night the fan didn't switch on with the light...Not Real

When the fan whirred to life with impeccable timing as the sax began playing its happy tune... Not Real

When my 3 year old son would happily babble from the bathtub to "The Lady"... Not Real

When he giggled in the kitchen at The Lady's scary face...Not Real

When he told me that she stood "behind you, Momma!" ...Not Real

The chill I got when he spoke to her... Not Real

The small vial labeled "Holy Water," $8.99 at the Christian bookstore... Not Real, probably tap water.

The online article about casting ghosts away... Not Real.  Just because it's on the internet doesn't mean it's true.

Sadie,  a sweet friend who agreed to "drive away the ghost" with me, though she was just indulging me... Real

Holding hands, anointing the first entrypoint with holy water, while my son held uncharacteristically still on the couch... Real

My voice, beginning the 23 Psalm, "The Lord is My Shepherd..."  Real

My child's voice, deeper than usual... Real

My child's voice, interrupting the prayer, "The Lady says GRRRRRR!"...  Not Real

The fear in Sadie's eyes as she urged me to "Pray faster!"...Real

My son never mentioned the Lady again...Real

Ex abundantia enim cordis os loquitur.

He seduces me on Latin tongue and Turnarounds

Or Blackbirds,

Or whatever the kids are calling those pills now-a-days.

He calls them Aimies, just for tonight.

We consume

Lines from the nightstand Bible-

Little broken Aimies,

Tiny crippled Blackbirds.

He says he wants to make me come.

I'm thinking of going until his mouth traces,

A pedibus usque ad caput,

And I'm overrun with Amens.

He expends every drop

From canister,

To thigh,

To thigh,

And back again

Like he's doing whippets for the queen.

Hail Mary, shield your face...

There's blood on the sheets-

Little blood drops on the sheets.

One thousand fingers, veiled and humble

Search for warm places-

Sacred spaces

To ignite,

To rest.

"God, you're beautiful."

"Jesus, you're amazing."

And every word he says,

I think I should write down

For the nights when I'm less divine,

For the nights when I'm revolting.

Tomorrow is The Day of the Blessed Virgin.

Tomorrow, we won't lay communion in our mouths.

Tomorrow, we'll toast with Tabasco and tomato at the dawn of a Holy Day.

But tonight we'll fuck.

And like good Catholic boys

And sweet Catholic girls,

We'll make promises that will

Die in the sun.

I am the mighty wall

you created

to shelter you

from Death climbing

baseboards of your existence.

My ears hearken to the words

of your lost soul.

Your scattered torso parts

are exposed

to my hungry naked eyes.

I hear and touch the drippings

of your notoriety, marching

in a formation of butchered

and shanghaied thoughts.

Your rancid flesh is spewed

by wails of debasement

as cruelty sticks

to my walls like Velcro.

You yell to my corners

but I can only rubberneck

as I unlock your filthy codes

with my listening key

and find your secrets.

A sodden liquor flows

from your reservoir,

adding to my burden,

shoring up

your angry thoughts.

You slice truth

like biscuits to my

gaping mouth,

anchored in my walls,

leading to your tomb

where I can no longer

H E A R   Y O U !

The cicadas call. A silent serenade in the dark. In the distance dogs are howling as if preparing for a fight. It's quiet out here. But inside you're raging. Fire and brimstone spit from a perfect tongue. You've hit the pipe and I've hit the bottle and the only distance between us is how high and how drunk. I shake my head at the sound of your voice. You're yelling and enraged. I light a smoke and draw in the toxic breath. Do I move? Or do I stay? I'm too drunk for this and you're tweaking too hard to care. I want to cry because more than anything I want you to go knowing I have you. Knowing that I will have you through it all. But how do you hold someone who never wants to come down?

And here I sit with the cicadas lullaby and the dogs in the distance and the sound of breaking glass and you talking to a shadow that isn't there.

But I love you and so I take another drink and I light another smoke and I prepare myself for the battle ahead

Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner...

As I lay here next to you

2 AM crying myself to sleep

You don't move

do you even hear me weep

I try hard to be the best

It goes unnoticed

Feeling unloved

unappreciated

Sick as it sounds

I'm used to it

So why do I still cry

I yearn so desperately

to be put on a pedestal

Appreciated for my strengths and soul

I crave the beauty of being loved for my passion and creativity

everything that makes me whole

I have jumped into the ocean of hope and 3rd chances

only to have you hold

my head under water

Finally I come up for air

Dazed but no longer confused

I contemplate

should I have stopped the pattern sooner before it was to late

I should have

But I didn't

can't go back

So this is where we are at

There you go

here I stay

Without a partner....

Im better off this way

I thought I ought to

ask my atoms

the anthems

I ought to

think, thank, thunk.

Meditate me to a 

stupid slumber but

can't apply these

alms to amens.

Been

almost

aeons

and my voice slow and still

and quiet and true and

I still don't know me

like you do.

We are a stubborn people,

defiant to the core.

This isn't the first time we've

been here.

We massacred the Indians and

started a war, and fought and

died and bled to live free from

the burden of taxes and regulations.

But much has changed and

we now wear chains of our own making,

and lay yokes on necks across the sea.

Good luck on your conquest,

because we light the sky every year

to remind the universe that we'll burn

this fucker down before we lose it.

And by the time you land on our shores,

you will have landed on a man-made sun,

burning black with flame and heat and

the smoke will mushroom above us all

and none of us will ever taste tomorrow.

Then our ghosts will hunt your ghosts

and we will start a colony in your paradise,

we'll trade halos for acres until you fall

down a wormhole of anguish to a hell

only we can imagine. So, good luck.

We are waiting. We are human. We are free.

I sit on a chair of thoughts.

Softer and softer it grows.

Dawn's hungry light grabs and hides the dark

And morning slips on its clothes.

My hands race as ink falls out their tips

Swirling on poetry and songs and dreams.

They're feeling the warmth of bright sun and skies

And hearing the howls of darker things.

It's Silent in the House.

Alone in the room, but not alone at all.

Holding onto reality with an invisible thread.

Listening to the shadows caress the white wall.

A beautiful picture of ivory hands.

Melody of silence in harmony screams.

Reaching for love in the thoughts of the lost.

Silence in sunbeams is piercing it seems.

Breathe in her pollen

as you divulge your soul

to the keeper of a garden,

your garden.

She, the beekeeper,

listens and accepts,

but hidden in her hive lies

a wasp.