Ghost Whisperer



                                        Mouth covered as eyes closed
                                       released grip as eyes open
force them shut with a whisper in the ear
                                     tales of how, I loved the force
                                     weight fell down;  freedom  no where in sight.

                                       Days, weeks, since I last had control
Happening once, twice, night after night
                                       Next day awake, naked, no one to hug
           My soul split in two, dissociated from a whole.

           Ceilings move, fragments scatter on the floor
spiders spill in through the windows
days since I last ate, comatose in bed.
                                          breathing in your poisoned

                                               Hid behind a mask of fear
use any skill of denial I carried.
other partners pass through me.
asleep with the ghost of my past.

I'm writing a short on the Devil.
The lady at the library didn't bat an eye.
I woke up at three in morning, worried.
It was just a bad dream,
a nightmare.
Its curious to think how strong his voice is
coming out of me.
Maybe I'm just that gifted
or maybe there's something I don't see.
"Don't read the books if its going to frighten you"
my moms says.
"all of that is make believe"
my boyfriend says
"He is nothing but a lair, prick and never to be trusted"
says my dad
"can't wait to read it"
says a few
i write limiting myself to where the story will go
I write on shaking that thought and opening my mind
I write on and on writing to scare myself.
Asking what If
the If i read is the question of sin
the if Stephen King taught me to use
The if that maybe...
no, it can't be.
there is nothing to fear.

The Compact


Some of us are given to,
upon our person to secret
instrumentation to adjust
the patina of our facial tones,
lest the glare of man made light
lend a shine undesired and worse,
uncovered windowed pores allow
revelations undesirable into our souls.

In other words, a compact and its constituents:
puff, powder and mirror.

Observed a compact in use
between Act I and Act II,
the deft use of the mirror,
angled, moved back and forth
to provide perspective,
close-up and/or total.

The Gods of Metaphor,
Deities of Derision
force my unwilling reveal
thru the holy confessional screen:
I too have a compact.

My compact, a deal, a treaty accord
between the white rigors of life daily,
and spasms of black lies
to make appearances tolerable.
My compact is what I cover up
with powder and puffery.

Aged sixty two years, life nonsensical,
perversely inversely, the dependence upon
these cracked hands grows,
dying cells dividing like newborns,
worrisome weariness make the lies
come faster and more frequent,
which is why my compact has a mirror.

No matter what perspective enamored,
In the mirror, my reality check,
No powder upon my eyes,
the brutality and the joy,
of life is undisguised.

Nonetheless, I have more,
Morethanless, the balance
is favorable, the outlook positive.
My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

Oh,
You say you could use a love like mine?

Darling,
I've been waiting for someone like you
For too long.

(- This is originally a spoken word poem. Read aloud for maximum exposure.
-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will use my thumbs to push back time
until hitler
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.

Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                             clack
click

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
ob        cation.
fus

So we should tell all the baby hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing lies out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put

barbed wire

between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library of language,
so free will isn't a book written in english.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still get annoyed when another doesn't enter our library
instead of trying harder
next time.

So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.

Werewolf.
My cousin Floyd was one.
He would prowl the night spots
When the moon was full.
One minute. Shooting the breeze

Next he would excuse himself to use the facilities and sneak
Out the bathroom window.
Quiet as a weremouse.

They say he was smitten
And bitten by the girl next door she

Was a bit hairy but.that's no reason to
Jump to confusions.

what about the gent in sheep's clothing.

When I was a kid if you were accused of
selling wolf tickets, you had a
poker face while holding a bad hand
Or.
Feeling froggy but having no hops was another
Lycantropic adventure.

Lon Chaney JR.
howled at the moon in black and white

In that case his howl was worse than his bite.
this poem is lacking in teeth.
goodnight.

I have been demolished
there no is pleasant stopping here
expected and smoothe
no pausing
I don't know if I'll ever continue

Ruins eat at my organs like rust and I crumble
The rooms crumbles
The room shrinks
But my head only expands
pressure in my head branching out into frost patterns in my skull
methodically combing for an exit

but there is none, so I become a lead universe
reaching and collapsing and shrinking and  reforming  only to fall again
because all I want to is duct tape my planets
and use fairy lights as stars and clarinets as lungs
but I cannot tell which way is which
which way am I
there is no air any more it was forsaken me
what way do I choose
the earthquakes have just begun

too many choices not enough paths
too many futures not enough present
too much too little too

But it's ok
I can rebuild a universe
Just give me my duct tape

We sell two albums on itunes if you search loud with love  



with music on your mind
everything is fine

the looks which are deceiving
dont detour the fact your breathing

and the fun you have, it's principle
face the fact, what you look at is just some random occurance

i get thru my days with coffee
couple packets of sugar, half and half, sometimes tea

i convince myself I'm nothing
but with music on my mind I'm something

I lalalalala through my job
fake it thru the day, surprised I been there this long

words will get me out, I'm positive
it'll just take some hard work, time, luck, and overcoming obstacles

but I can do it
you can do
just use song to get you through

i. I’d tell them of the moment you spoke about your favorite cartoon characters, and the way your face flashed when you described them to me. How innocent that brilliance was and how guileless your mannerisms were. And I’d wish they understand why I fell in love with the feeling of your innocent enthusiasm about some nonsense cartoons no one else cared about.

ii. I’d show them all your worries and troubles stacked on top of one another in a carelessly balanced house made of playing cards. And while they were appraising these I’d point out how selfless you are. How your troubles were never centered around your own joy. And I’d wish they see that the house of cards I showed them is a reflection of the person you are. The kind of person who’d knock those cards down if they had your name on them instead.

iii. I’d paint them a picture of your mind as I see it. Full of intricate ambitions, contradictory emotions, unreasonable doubts and absent-minded memories. I’d use black and blue pen to dot your journey here. And bright red to show them the great places you are destined to go. And I’d wish they stand back and appreciate the amalgam of colors instead of questioning why. There isn’t a single spot on the canvas I seem to fully understand despite being the artist.

iv. I’d take them on a walk to the place we first met. I’d make sure it was a sunny day first, just like that one. I’d tell them I didn’t think much of you at all when I first met you. I’d make them sit in that same spot, and feel the same way we felt as indifferent strangers. And I’d wish they understand that despite the seeming insignificance of that moment, I look back and am convinced I see a halo of light above that place and the beguiling simplicity of that day.  

v. I’d tell them how tightly you hugged me when I was sad. How softly you touched my arm when you assured me that nothing was wrong. How quietly you showed me an overflowing friendship that’s waiting to combust  And I’d wish they understand that it’s not just how wonderful it was breathing in the smell of your old jacket. It’s how wonderful it felt, feeling the weighty presence of a thousand words unspoken.

vi. I’d warn them before they meet you, this is what I’d say: “It’s easy to make that boy laugh, but it’s hard to win him over. His love is not on display, his mind has been sent to the dry cleaners. His laugh has been blocked with by caution and logic. But don’t ever say you don’t understand that he’s a wonderful human being”, I’d hope they understand your appearance is all pretense.

vii. And if someone asked me why I love you, this is what I’d say: It is hard for me to imagine going through the rest of this life and meeting another singular human being like you.