Ghosts, April 19, 2015 (Inspired by an anonymous friend)
Nothing is
ever truly gone.
Bodies that cruised
Backrooms, or kissed lovers,
Shift,
become
Invisible in
death rebirthed,
Lazarus
revealed to
Believers
already fitted for straightjackets.
Curious
visions these see-throughs -
Insubstantials
watching, staring,
Commanding attention, turning from my public display,
Piercing
darkness with laser-light confidence, yet denied substance.
Smoky words and letters, exhaled crystal gave shelter,
Searchers escaped asylum, unhooded and unrestrained,
A brotherhood, moved to lower traffic
areas,
Those fuck machines - Anything but porn! -
Gave humanity something wonderful - themselves, raw, exposed
Is this the
realm of hungry ghosts, that mind-place
Populated by heads afloat and wasted bodies of smoke,
Dressed in
styles from the ages, searching for
The way out?
No Adkins,
no Paleo, no warm-buttered-biscuit repast, only this
Ghostly,
substantial nothingness,
Save memory [that]
Survives by harvesting our essence - words, sacred thoughts not ITs to disclose,
From the living, from themselves :
"no
limits here," carpe diem inspiration, wedding bliss, amputations, the
What-We-Felt-and-Did
remains of having been who we were.
Wrongdoing
and righteousness, discarded, freed Golum-ghosts
Possessed of
Precious, crossing over.
Burning,
bright-hot energy recycles into
Matter, the totality of which is neither created nor destroyed
Without any
presorting into blue bins.
(Time
out: So basically we were living on
history's leftovers -
excrement of
the past, oil from the Gulf, fields of tulips,
Sherman,
Lincoln, all of it repurposed.
Wake up! Your
food has already been chewed!
But plowboys
plow as they must, or as they've been convinced they must.
They do not have to do anything, nothing at all.
It's a
frenetic mixing, spicing, stirring, and reheating of life's crusty stuffing, a
Self-imposed
false burden that demands “New and Improved.”
But the
wheel is already perfect!
A simpler
communion for me! Neither sipped nor
nibbled, but
Shared
freely at a table where life and death meet in the
Perfect
wisdom that One cannot Be without the other.
This we
think we know.
Do ghosts
monitor our world stage, amused by
Fresh lives
printed on recycled paper and
Cat boxes filled
with clean litter, bowls wet with food,
Water to
drink?
Poor
creatures, earthboundlings,
Unaware that
nothing really matters, that
Ghosts intervene,
saving lives and love not from the taste of the
Forbidden
fruit of knowledge, but from the
Gluttony of
too much, too soon.
"No
need to miss life's childhood, this human being-ness."
Piles of
importance and self-importance,
Bodies bloated, happier left to fuck and have a good time,
Level
playing fields, kiss eyelids and noses -
Life-stuff
for the dearly departed, who
Know all
must be consumed and spit back into what is, for
Second
helpings and chances.
Unimportance
constantly renews, never lets anyone
Starve in
the realm of hungry ghosts.
Come to my
bed at night and look so damn hard at me but never
Say a word, yet speak as though I listen.
Pleasure
rises under the gaze of Spirits,
Stares
locked in battle lust, tongues in the mouths of the
Transitioned,
here to there.
Which is
alive, which dead?
Both.
None stay,
all drift, fade
Evanescent
like human lives, all
Ghosts under
assumed names.
