House

Goodnight, house.
Take care of the ghost in my absence.
A good day's rest
Could not shake this lingering sadness.

I've shut off all your lights
And I've left you all
Shiny and spotless.
There's a stone in my heart
And it's stuck there
Until I forget this.

So goodnight, house.
Take care of the ghost in my absence.
All my friends
Have gone but left vanishing remnants.

I hear organs
They're sounding and screaming
"Don't let go of it."
I see windows
They're frosting and snow
Has built in the basement.

So goodnight, house.
Take care of my ghost.

95

It picks up although

light pulses ahead.
All of the cars
are kicking up a
fog-laden spray
(a hovering stream)
on this expanse of an
interstate.

I am calm.
I am alive.
I am something.
I have aged.
I have substance.
I have fingers.
They are softly gripping the wheel.
At least, they were.

Is/Was

How simple I feel.

I don't have to be here.
Everyone's directing me to the door, whispering:
"You're free to leave."
But I'm persistent and I stay.
If not for just another day.
I do not have to be here.

I am involuntarily tethered.
I'm chained to the scuffed floors,
the scratched desks, the lite graffiti
scrawled on the whiteboard.
To this dirty and slowly absolved atmosphere,
to the ending of another year.
Even if I'm not a part of that end,
rather, a transitional ghost.

I know that I am just one part
of one cog in an ever-rotating
cluster of carousel gears.
But now that we are rusted,
this is not our end.
This is part of my forever.
This is part of our forever.
We are something bigger.
I can rest knowing we are giants,
in a thick forest
that comes up
only to our shoulders

Haunt Texture

Disengaged, tired.
Collapsing but too afraid to say it.
My fingers can not move from
Sleep paralysis.
13 hours in bed.
The sun is out, the shades are closed.
The water has left my eyes.
I've lost all will to write.
I am not getting up.
Anytime soon.

I am tumbling
Sideways.
I want to be there.
But my heart is slow.
And I am not getting up.

I Expected The World To Break Open Today.

I expected the world to break open today.
For my house to be lifted,
For lightning to topple trees,
And angry branches would smother me.

But nature hardly breathed,
Wrapped itself in tinted cellophane,
And slowly closed its eyes.

And in the morning, it will disrobe,
Stretch a bit, and I will still wonder
What it means to fight for something.

~-~

Itis

"I'm not happy anymore"
I exclaim as I scatter
All my books across the floor
Searching for some answer
I can't find outside the door,
Oh it's night, always dusk in the street.

"She doesn't love me anymore"
I cry out in pain
As the glow engulfs my head
Turning all the spirits
To a dim and dusty red
But it's dark, always dusk here in space.

I'm destined to clean up messes
that no one else will see

Inviting my hopes over
to someday maybe stay a while with me.

The elephant in this grey box
is staring straight into my dead eyes.

Collapse is fast approaching
and no one's here to watch these legs die.

"I haven't left here for a week"
I wonder aloud
Although I'm too afraid to speak
Fear of admonition
From the shadows that I breathe
You come in as if nothing's even changed.

The Bohemian Republic of Venezuela

I can see sleep
Working its daily death
On my shutter eyelids
As two blank screens
Incessantly illuminate
This stupid pitch-black space.

Always connected always wired maybe happy always

And it's times like these
When I dream of returning
But I die every day.
Although there, like a patient undead
Remains outside, in the outside world.

And so I will wake up.

And so I will sprint til I spot shelter
The gentle arms of academia
Where even no man has a home.

here

Dissonance Pistil

I see a ghost.

My eyes are itchy.

A low buzz is rolling through the halls.

Everything glows violent.
You are a slow shriek.
And humming, red ash flowers.
This house is engulfed in smoke.
My autopilot won't turn off.
The electricity's gone.
And you are becoming a ghost.

Impossible Hour

---------------
i once slept easier than a
black bear turned golden
from the sun:
resting
safe, heavy
in morning pastures.

i once knew more than an
aged sailor turned bronze
with wisdom and overwhelming light:
dreaming
loud, anxious
for the sun to glow red, perpetual.

now it is dark and
i am restless and
i want to blanket you with
technicolor sun
but its late.
i know that it's too late now.

where are you at this impossible hour?
sunken, dying,
entirely out of my control.

Don't Care.

The kids don't care anymore.

They are either standing or slumping
or pretend-preparing for something
beyond their understanding.
And they will wind up and spin away:
They will wind up in a grey box
and that will be all they ever want
because they do not care anymore.
The kids don't care anymore.