ghost

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.

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stockton boulevard

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.

tower bridge

ghost. tower bridge

Several minutes before midnight we were passing through letters and numbers of roads. The harvest had grown thin with the moon, and the night was lit in pockets by neon-spelled vacancies between empty lots and service stations on the main thoroughfare. The fires of hell had been subdued by the fighters, and left a tinge of smoke to permeate the valley air. I hugged my sweatshirt close and listened to the engine of the truck as you brought her to speed. The tower bridge was in sight now, outlined by spotlights facing up to the sky. The river swirled quiet below in the dark, turning and churning and yearning for sea. We could not help but seeing a figure, taller than life and draped in unknown layers of cloth, standing in the middle of the street at the entrance to the bridge.  I looked at you and you looked at me. A chill came across our engines, as we thundered on by in the lowest of gears. The figure stood perfectly still. I tried to see who it might be and found myself looking into a void with no face and no name, and no resonance of life, none whatsoever! We both knew instinctively after passing, not to look back. I looked down at the body of water and saw some reflections of light in the water. The bridge underneath spoke out against the weight of us… even they! even they!Even they, more alive than the ghost!

envy of a ghost

 Would the soul cry out if it were being hurt, or would it take its licks salty dead silent? I don’t know but the operation went smooth (they say) and they removed the organ intact and placed it in the care of a preservation society. I don’t feel any different, except that I have no soul. I have found myself out politicking and bloodsucking, which were never part of my M.O. in the past, but seem to fit my personality so perfectly now. I think I may write myself in for president next Tuesday. Such are the ways of a woman – sans soul.  Trying to compensate for the loss, I mean, though again I say I never felt better in my life, and shook hands with several doctors and a nurse. They even allowed me to put my palms up against the glass and peer in upon the many incubating souls in one dedicated room leased out by the chairman of some board, and I tried to locate mine and yes, I believe I found it! calling for me from one far sanitary corner. My breath steamed the glass and condensed. I stiffened up to suddenly realize a part of me was gone, and no small part indeed. But I comfort myself with my hand in my pocket wrapped around the thick fold of bills. I can properly say farewell and shout through the long empty echo chambers of my heart: “IT WAS WORTH IT!” Today I shall go and have myself fitted by my personal shopper, with all the fineries of a twenty-first century lady. By noon I can see myself peering into the floor to ceiling mirror, in the deep fault of re-cognition. An extravagant and spacious feeling, I am sure! But an envy of a ghost.

you, me and the blinking ghosts

you, me and the blinking ghosts

Ya you got lost like I did    And came around eventually     Getting lost was part of life     Part of the deal     Finding your way was so surreal     Now you’re not who you were     Are you sure?

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
Dying

All we were was lost
Not faded. Something out there polished us
Now we are shiny and smooth
Not a statistic
More realistic