ghosts of word

The reader stops believing

all rendered by the same hand that devastates and subdues.

Triumphant and trivial

bent to the keys all hell in her eye she write this:

Just give me ONE good window

Bare bulb

No blind or shade

Just a starved little kid burning out the old roaches stuffing their guts with history

To the streets men

On the blocks boys to the gutter…

I stand reflected in mirrored sheets of rain

My art falls onto paper

red like the devil and his skin

Lines people spoke but never heard of…

I am an everyday word in an everyday world mistaking magic caught in the jaws of light on stage behind bar stools and secret destroyers.

Set to confuse the dreamless sleep pregnant with headlights in only a sweater flirting with rivers I run with a saint yes- tired- along the banks, roofs - music note wires-

The opposite of enlightenment is an envied edge and weightless drop into the emergency of brilliance…

The truth the memory the indecisions

snap my fingers sharp and starve an echo.

Vanished in the ecstasy bouquets of faceless hopes stuffed inside pockets

I spy the world in tongues found dismembered at the base of Babels tower

Unshaved

Uncooked

Placed in a pot

Terrified

I’m just an empty ghost convincing you how time does not exist

As you read this in my future, your present is written in my past.