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

cropped-eye-of-providence.jpg

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.

 

cropped-ghost-january.jpg

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.