nobody knows if you’re real. they won’t dare speak to you. free to be and not exist. a classic. a dialectic. wander the streets fueled by peanut butter cups. watch them all path back to home. doors close out the cold night. nobody calls for you. grotesque carved faces flicker and laugh. nowhere to go. nobody cares. you lick your fingers to rub off the paint and the ghostly palor remains. now wander the streets for eternity.
down an uneven stretch of stockton boulevard in summer, south of sacramento, i came across a classy broken one; remarkably postured like a runway girl, walking bubblegum pink stilettos, long tan legs up to daisy dukes, a halter top, don’t stop, the mechanical boyish stroll; summer’s heat tempered by a bottle blue parasol angled off her skinny shoulder blade; urban electric milkmaid conjuring the ghost, to the tomb of some unknown soldier had her for his pinup girl in 1943.
ghost. tower bridge
I will bet you a dollar you can make it from here to there
But I cannot make it I don’t think I can
I’ll bet you a buck you can
I was just as likely to devour the blinking ghosts before they turned solid and came after me. I really didn’t want to eat them at all, but if you don’t eat them I’m told they will wind you like a clock then disappear you. I’m not ready to disappear! Not at all.
You can come out of hiding
Really Show up if you can
We’ve all been dying to meet you
All we were was lost
Not faded. Something out there polished us
Now we are shiny and smooth
Not a statistic
I will meet you
reach for me
after the accident