Thursday, May 31, 2012


a ghost's vein/cartilage/bone quotient is
unlike that of someone not very tall
and unlike that of someone very tall;
it is instead, as in my case, merely a pile of
veins and it moves like erect noodles and
then slows slowly to a crawl...

when the Ghostbusters are having a bad day,
everybody knows they're particularly hostile:
getting it from the Neutrino Wand is like
getting a thrashing with the Bible's jagged tail,
as it slaloms like a leathery school bus,
then crashes: you're face to face with it in a
weird, suicidal unwrapping of upholstery

the dead lives in careful, ritualistic instability
it's classic overkill, if plowing through it
with your Proton Pack creates a vacuum –
sure, thoughts in the head are captive;
sure, it's because the back of the neck is sealed
but with a fever dream's vulgar inhalation, your
machine augments our mind with a crack
foreshadowing a small ball of rot, dislodged –

a ghost's last prayer grows a pitiful carapace,
and thus seems to be embodied by a modern-day shrimp
crawls out of the crack, out of its bog nest,
merely one of many rows of bog nests; crawls out;


the mind cremated turns soggy,
some parts MAY HAVE BEEN buried alive

I peer through
where I dwell


through the only geological friend I ever had

the ground's sarlacc-belly behaving as expected

I peer through the suck asking no one in particular

Newton, Isaac,

how could you do
such a thing?

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