you don’t knock on my door anymore – ghost #62

1400 cobwebs

You don’t knock on my door anymore.

I’m left to that resonance of your last knock that ping pongs around my apartment like an invisible pinball.

I’m left to the vibrations like our hands intertwined on the keys of a piano pressed down hard with our feet on two pedals, letting our love ring long and loud but slowly dying down like a sick old dog.

I’m left to wonder if I still hear anything and at what point does living in memory become a madness.

A necklace, a gift, left to sleep in the bottom of a box.

Who’s to say that I’d wear it as a noose and not as the physical amalgamation of that song that comes on and transports you through time?

When we set things down to not carry them any longer, is it to forget or because they are already always there?

I look in the mirror as I wrap your necklace around my neck and watch as it sinks into my skin.

I hear a knock on my door but I don’t know if I’m home or not to answer it.



ghost #62 is.

Photo: Matthew T Rader

South Broadway Ghost Society: 2018 in Review


South Broadway Ghost Society was founded in October of this year, and that already feels like a lifetime ago. Over the last three months, there has been a plethora of amazing poems, fiction and non-fiction among other magic on the journal. I wanted to take a minute to look back at some of the highlights of the year.

a specific hell

A Specific Kind of Hell: Writing and Survival in America’s South

In “A Specific Kind of Hell: Writing and Survival in America’s South” Blake Edward Hamilton gives us an in-depth look at what it was like to grow up in the South as a young gay man and an outsider. Through his creative non-fiction essay, he paints an important picture of American climate that continues to be challenged today.


Three Poems by Sam Pink

In three short poems that seem to belong together, Sam Pink captures the magic of mundane moments of life, leaving it up to you to decided where between existentialism and nihilism they fall.

ghost selfie

Ghost Selfie by Alexandra Naughton

Alexandra Naughton combines selfie videos with paranormal activity in only 82 seconds. Watch it with the closed captions on.


Girl Gone by Natalie Sierra

“Someone fed me nostalgia through a tube and I thanked him with my cunt…” begins Sierra’s poem and the momentum just keeps on from there. Sierra herself feeds us nostalgia through an undeniably strong, sardonic voice.

taco bell

Best Title of a Piece on The Journal

Recognition for best title of a piece on the journal has to be a three way tie between:

“Put Me on a Dog Leash and Make Me Eat Taco Bell of the Floor” – Nate Perkins

“A Wink May Be The Same as a Nod to a Blind Man, But That Doesn’t Mean He’s Going to Lend You His Credit Cards to Get a Bunch of New Spongebob Squarepants Tattoos Unless You’ve Got Some Pretty Serious Collateral” – David S Atkinson


“I Got Drunk and Pissed on the Side of Buffalo Exchange” by Ghost #62.

In “Put Me on a Dog Leash…” Perkins sends us barreling through the anxiety of money, relationships and depression at roughly 300 miles per hour.

In “A Wink May Be The Same As a Nod…” Atkinson gives a quick glimpse at the end of the world – where it’s really not that big of a deal.

In “I Got Drunk and Pissed…” anonymous Ghost #62 looks at self-destructive behaviors and seasonal depression.

I’m thinking there might be a correlation between long titles and apathy.


Three Poems by Ahja Fox

In three poems, Fox looks at her relationship with her mother, her identity and God, giving us a better collective idea of where the poet is coming from and where she is headed.

There was so much great work on the journal this year. This is by no means a complete list, but really just a quick look at some of what really stood out to me. I highly encourage you to take a look back through the pages of the journal at all the amazing voices we’ve had the opportunity to share.


Thank you all for making 2018 a great year for South Broadway Ghost Society. I cannot wait to see what 2019 brings.

Brice Maiurro

maybe i’m in a murakami novel – ghost #62

ghost yard

Maybe I’m in a Murakami novel. Maybe I never got off that train in Japan. Maybe this is enough, I think, as I sit on a subway, contemplating my disappearing cat, my disappearing lover, eating a sandwich, my bags all shuffled like a chaotic orchestra. Maybe there’s death to be had. Maybe there’s morning that has yet to be sipped. Maybe there is a transcendentalism to bingewatching television. I am bingewatching people in the park. I am closing all of the garage doors to my emotional relevancy. Maybe I never left the city. Maybe the city is in me, a creature of habit, half asleep on a train that goes in circles beneath the novel of my moment.

Image result for cat clipart

i got drunk and pissed on the side of buffalo exchange – ghost #62

Hi. I am not dead as of yet

I don’t think.

I feel as if I still have bus passes to validate.

Cold streets to walk down in Denver
they say that walking around Wash Park is as hazardous to your health
as a pack of cigarettes
I haven’t researched it really
but it’s believable
as in it’s probably true
as in the park is trying to kill me
as in I really gotta take a minute to vote
and I should really take some time to doll myself up a bit.

Do you think that
when you die
there’s a stat sheet?

How many hours of my life did I spend on social media?
Who was the king or queen actor of your porn history?
Let’s take a look at your Google searches.
Could you please pay your Englewood Library late fees before you go?

I got drunk once and pissed on the side of Buffalo Exchange.
To be honest it was exhilarating.
It felt like a statement but I’m not sure it was as simple as me defaming
Buffalo Exchange or claiming it as my own
though the double-edged sword there is certainly very interesting.

Halloween feels like getting drunk on Satan to get through Christmas.

Thanksgiving feels like impatience to get to Christmas so we eat.

All of these holidays feel like clever ways to fight seasonal depression.

All of the seasonal depression maybe is a necessary decompression.

A body in motion stays in motion
so when in constant motion
there is a necessity for a body
to somehow adapt and find ways
to recharge.

I’m falling in love with someone every week.

I’m letting go of someone every week.

I want hot cocoa but not the calories.

I think I just want someone to read my poems once I am dead.

submit to soboghoso.

Intangible Ceiling – ghost #62

The great barrier reef has been officially pronounced dead.

The coffee at work is burnt.

There are at least three bats living in my broken fireplace.

There are ghost children in the back of throat.

They taste like the sea in the places where the sea is garbage.

The news is being spoken in braille.

Trains are falling of cliffs.

Men in hats are sneaking around strangling women.

There is a room that is nothing but mattresses and for some reason I want to lay at the floor and stare at the ceiling at the synthetic lights

pretending they are the only sky I’ve ever known.

So manageable

families of flies dancing around a false god

unaware of the tempest that is brewing through the intangible ceiling.

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