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;
falls,
the
mind cremated turns soggy,
some
parts MAY HAVE BEEN buried alive
I
peer through
where
I dwell
disturbing
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?
