i run into wolves running – ghost #13

ruslan

i run into wolves running
into me into mirrors into
switchbacks into endless
forests along endless rivers

i run into wolves running
into walls into hiding into
rebirth into fires in rooms
that they may not ever find

i run into wolves running
into death into memory
into the precision of a
scalpel into the western west

and therein i die and i die
and i run and i die and i
see it there on the shelves
the dust attracted to the

light like moths attracted
to fire like wolves attracted
to movement to packs to
new mentality until they too

die. and i too die. and if
not now then when and
if not now then when?
then when?

 we are ghosts. then when?


ghost #13 is something something something. they are from somewhere, sometime. this one is dedicated to someone someone, another ghost, i’m sure.

Photo: Ruslan Bardash

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new balloon – ghost #13

0000000 balloon

this is a death.

this the sound of a Boeing 747 knocking on your frontal cortex.

this is a purging of two-thousand and eighteen years of stop, of start over, let go, go home, be kind, deliver us from evil, love thy neighbor, tip your waiter, right side of the road, left side strong side.

this is a painter taking white #FFFFFF over everything except of course for

you.

 

this is my open palm telling you it’s okay.

 

you are okay.

 

you made a mess of yourself.

dirty laundry hanging from the dull blades of your ceiling fan.

dust lining the windows of your room.

 

start over.

 

press gently in reverse into the footprints you’ve left in the snow.

 

start over.

 

don’t give up.

 

give in.

 

suck in the sun, the sky, the dilapidated cars chugging down nowhere road so quick

and blow it out into a new balloon.

 

slipknot the string around your open facing wrist

and push off of the ground

into the sky which no one has actually been able yet

to measure.

 

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Photo: Laurn Carrasco Morón

three deaths in thirty seconds – ghost #13

ghost yard

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.

sbgs cowskull

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.

today i’m definitely feeling like the forest – ghost #13

today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.
like despite the fascist metal shadow of one thousand windows
i am still just the forest.
just the truth.
just the closest thing to unadulterated.
pure and untainted i wander into myself and understand this is endless.
i don’t have to be anything other than a forest unto myself.
and there is grace in acknowledging that i know that i am clearly dying.
to watching my roots pull up by the insatiable grasp of my limbs.
earthworms digging in the beds of my feet.
i am not the city.
not today.
today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.

submit to soboghoso.

the sound of something – ghost #13

did you turn off every light in every single room of your
house? did you dust the spaces between the spaces where
the diseases tend to creep in, the same way as the anxiety.
did the anxiety leave you lonely? feeling pushed back into
the walls you tried to escape? do the walls feel like they are
listening or are the walls too dense to feel? did you think to
water the dying plants? does the refrigerator hum sound
like a purring motor or a sonic death? do you ever use your
record player or does it just spin and spin and spin while
you lie on the floor like the floorboards? are you just like
the floorboards? how heavy do the dead lightbulbs swing?
how much of a house have you become because i miss the
way you’d walk around on those legs like sweet victory. i
miss the way you breathed deep with my ear to your chest
as i played amateur doctor. on the floor beside your bed
as i leaned in to you, cherishing the sound of something
other than everything because i get so sick of everything.
so omnipresent and in need of so much attention. and it
is just so invested in its own well being that it sometimes
forgets to breathe but you breathe and i breathe or we
did but now you’re a house. you are such a house and i
am just the short storm that blew at your shingles and
they didn’t move. they didn’t move.
submit to soboghoso.

i want to eat every petal of every flower in every field – ghost #13

i want to eat every petal of every flower in every field
and fall asleep at night with a garden in the dust of the gut of me
churning into the soil of my stomach like some strange motor oil
and waking me in the dark soul of the night with new fucking flowers
new burning new beauty flowers organic and undaunted and honest
as night birds climb in mass on the top of the roof of this opera
and congregate to listen to the sound of me being born way too late
and way too late is never way too late when you’re born an opera
when you born of dead things as unusually and impeccably alive
a parade traveling through a graveyard at dusk inside of me
and never a question of what could have been because it all has been
because it all has been and i am awake and hungry and searching for petals
and searching for petals to ingest every segment of humanity over and again

i begin.

i begin right fucking
now.

submit to soboghoso

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