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.

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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.
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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.

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