three deaths in thirty seconds – ghost #13

it was over and dead
and the ground produced no flowers.

it was over and dead
the cable cords were cut.
the television looked like a race war.

the fridge was unhumming.

i was dead and buried in the cushions
of the couch.

i was dead and all my poems were dead too.

and it all came in through the windows.
new breath new flowers
new life new love

new angels of electric health.
new standards of electric wealth.
And I screamed back into the wind in a
way that no day could ever forget and it
screamed back and my eyes were the size of life and
my pupils swallowed the sky and I fell down happy on the
couch
and I died,
I died,
I died.

there is an idea of a ghost #13, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory.

submit to south broadway ghost society.