the Ghost in me
the crazed art so demonic with a pen. an omen inside a gargoyle out there the
grass in bloody. brains hanging depth screaming so haunted in this pregnant house.
to love, have you felt it, with all those pictures in Jesus? a reed a reef a
bled soul—to die for it, to give it ambition, to love unto the last death.
thugs outside. laughing with your woman. how to catch a legitimate fight? I was
rolling cigarettes, seated on a bench, when word came. too stoic too denied too
much a falling falcon. to leave it alone, to love her guts, to be a true mentor—affected
by blindness, never so clear, the pain is the delight. looking at another, so
damn strange, a broken belly. a vile face, a decent heart, with skin effected
by liquor. it was hell into her, a convulsion with minds clicking in space. the
Ghost in me the crazed art so demonic with a pen. rescued at eleven, sacrificed
at twelve, seated in a police car at nine. an associate went ballistic, he
killed a family, his mother screamed, “Not my son!” momma was passed out a
roach on her pillow a gnat on her nose. rough sounds a ghetto brook wild into
an angelic generation. erased inside, can’t remember inside, so deep inside—the
pedophilia the rapes the ghetto too much dying. to meet like dungeons, her eyes
sunk in, we need joy—the brown sky the black Africa, a fool with this damn pen.
on a carousel upon a windmill, eating saw-berries. at sugar for pain, a package
for Yahweh, how in desperation—this way this gut these chills—a pound of tears,
a coffee cup of yoga, racing through territories. going for gold, listening to
basketballs, screaming at footballs—those golfing elements, seated in a daze,
rather color in ink. a long time heaving up vomit. steering wheel made of
leather. pulled over screaming at concrete. fists slamming an ambition dying,
at a telephone in my fucking guts. it’s ringing, Pain, mother is screeching,
father just trespassed uncle’s tribunal. drama in heaven, read the lines, read
Kings.
