a tower viewer careened by a tourist,

trying to find their center.

the adverse effect brought on--somehow

being too scenic, a fake hyperrealism.

which becomes the irrational fear of concurrence.

not unlike: 'G*d you scared me, i didn't know you

were there!'...

as so the tower viewer stays positioned by

sudden disuse.

clothes start to feel like skin
on skin--the exclusivity of bodiless
wings, sickly sweet refreshers.
air's first cold stare at fire, the scent
of its rough *** carrying a harvest.
a charred basket left at an open field.
scared crows anatomizing he who
goes there--same as a stranger in a
fallout with light.
always last seen, & unrecognizable.
where trees follow him--with inward
resolve.

Jezebel's been skeletonizing True Crime--
plethoric to the degree of Richard Ramirez'
breath, a fellow halitosis sufferer.
especially noting the forensics of love, as if she
could inspire such extremes.
a crone's rotative head, turning the screws of
invisibility--hypervigilant of a kind of danger that
won't even consider her.
there's a poet Jezebel reads in that manner--a darkly
handsome force at her throat, willing to lay it all down.
poems like a shadow's outer space--right there, yet
coming after her.
Jezebel's delusiveness  hurls moondust at this poet's
absence--generous enough to have pleasured her.
as since her deterioration expects the worst, so the poet
writes her off as dead--which she literalizes, poor thing.

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.

medieval paintings feel scrutinized by a
torturer--an upside down cross that lowers
into an oubliette.
the: "forgotten"--where a prisoner is thrown,
from a trap door that opens to a bottle-shape
pit.
with only enough room to stand, according to
what bones the fall selectively broke--as if
retorts to what end.
sewage often working its way in, putrid fumes
riding the back of chills & out with *****.
the hysterical prickles of whiskers, shooting
a toothiness unfit for a mouth--head above water.
slicked back fur pulling along a skin tail--rats
marking a precise claustrophobia.
excellent for nervous eating in a screaming darkness.
where regions of the prisoner do not report back,
as wind between mountains of night seeing itself off.
feces & ***** raining down from jesting guards--
lowering his head to briefly acknowledge the
corpse he's standing on.
while trap door phosphenes begin to open for the:
"forgotten".

there's a crow i keep around,

that will never forget my face.

it watches all forms of life play dead,

nothing gets passed it--so it can not

play dead.

nor can it play alive, it doesn't exist in

any sense--yet it will never forget my face,

because it will never have to remember it.

i say crow, as i say pet--where associative images

come to mind, yours or mine?

you have words for almost everything--even me,

you call me: nothing, ness as of...there isn't

even space.