a ghost roams this house
it's yours
and its one of the many things you left behind
when you left behind nothing

-not even a toothbrush
just your teeth biting deep

not even a perfume bottle
but an aura
like how a dead flower sitting in its vase still leak lilies
and how a dead body laying in its casket still bleeds love

but if i know one thing
it's knowing nothings are something
like how even though you took my heart running
I don't need it to keep my blood pumping

if you couldn't infer who is 'her'

she is all the hers i've known
from all the we's that I have blown
where some and none and one are One
and more will come til life's been run

that's a guess but it sounded definite
its also a guess that the possibilities are infinite
it's a guess she'll remain as a sessioned imression
I know I still haven't answered your question

is this poetry or is this love
is this business really something
to discuss in the tub

is this drowning or is this drinking
or are these overwhelming feelings
products of too much thinking

is this sleeping or is this blinking
because i don't know how much further
life can keep shrinking

poetry is sleep, death and rest
and while these have not truly been addressed
I guess poetry is also life's digress

A chicken might live without a head
live many a year before it's dead
but have its heart ripped from its breast
and it'll be in seconds before it rests

but oh how its different with us
and isn't the poem the best forum to discuss
that without a head - death would appear
but without a heart. Well. I'm still right here

Maybe the greatest injury yet
was all too soon after we met
and with eyes and ink still wet
you tried to **** me with the alphabet

I'm not sure if death is an injury
but from the Rockies to the Yangtze
If you read any Bukowski
You may never rip that knife free

A final stanza on the busy bus
can make the world freeze
so don't forget to hold onto the handrail
or when it really stops,
you'll be brought crashing to your knees