I remember the last time a ghost
whispered in my ear.
It was wrapped around a guy
preaching about the Rapture
outside my apartment. As I
walked out to listen, they turned
to me: first the guy
then the ghost.

The guy said
     God is truth
     Satan is banished
     The City has fallen
     The Plague has come
and the ghost stroked his hair
and rubbed his earlobes.

I said
     God is truth
     The Plague will go
     The City will rise
     Satan rules within
the ghost clutched the guy's
neck and
cupped his ***** as
I spoke, and the guy
squeezed his eyes shut
as he shook no.

So, I lifted my hat to show
the hole I'd dug
into my forehead
to store the little cross I
whittled last year. The guy
saw my raw skin, tender
scars gouged by my nails
and said
     You are
     bat **** crazy.

But the ghost giggled and
blushed
and drifted over to me to
whisper a verse of Revelations
while I
snuck that cross
into its pocket. Then I
waltzed away
smiling
ear to ear
thinking of bats.

Legends say that silver tigers
only eat true things
like birds
blown from glass,
expired cups of applesauce,
drug deals
between teenagers,
dead wood, ultimatums,
anger, burnt letters, and
friendship keychains
wrapped in red tape
to fight time
for 14 years.

They're a real pain to
keep in the apartment
too--even when kept
in a kennel in the closet
by the yearbooks and
the piles of
dead snakes--

for when silver tigers
hunger, they
will
hunt you down:
you
and the world.

And she says no.  The cream light
under her back porch’s awning collects
in her tears.  She slides her toes
within the tangle of grass and
weeds beneath us as we sit
in damp folding chairs.  Fogfruit
wanders amongst the webbings
on my feet with soft, upward strokes.  
I echo myself again in hopes
of tapering the night.  
Can I leave?  

And she says no.  Fogfruit
under her damp folding chair slides
in her tangle of grass and weeds.  She echoes
soft, upward strokes
beneath us as we sit
in the cream light.  The night
wanders amongst her back
porch’s awning with myself again.  
I taper the webbings of my feet
in hopes of collecting her tears.  
Can I leave?  

and she says no; fogfruit still
between my toes

Keep the lights on when you sleep
and avoid submerging too deep
into your dreams, for a string
of shouting matches and glinting knives
tumble down in the dark
of the moon, rapping on the door like
knuckles rolling
over and over with a pause in between for
bated breath, wanting to swing
like a pendulum wherever
it pleases.  Keep the lights on, and
you can at least unlock the door.

We spread dad's
ashes in secret.
But does he know?

“Come on baby, it’s ok.”
Strands of my love's brown hair catch on the cloth seats
of my car as her head bobs limp. The seat-belt
comes off easily enough, allowing a good angle
to pick her up and set her upright 

against the car door.  Her breath
smells like *****.  Or is it whiskey?

My palms slip over the sweat on her
legs and the back of her blouse
as I try to pick her up.  Once there, her body
slides down my arms and bounces
against my chest, wild and insecure.  
The front door of her house creaks open.  

Light peers out over the shoulder
of her mom's silhouette onto
the driveway. She's shaking her head.  
Her hand half-covers
heavy, closed eyes.  At least she can
stay at the door; I'm carrying
my love myself this time.

When the boxelder beetle died in front
of me, it was in good company.  The drapes
covering the wood and pipes softened
the sunlight illuminating stain-glass arches
behind the *****, shrouding dozens of other
dead boxelders that littered the tiles.  As
the bug slowed to a halt, each leg twitched
instead of moving forward.  The sunday service
then began and the larger pipes of the *****
rumbled through the chapel, causing the floor
to hum along with the numerous insect corpses.  
Each beetle vibrated to a slight blur and shifted
in one direction or the other, except for the one
still living; it gripped to the tiles beneath.  But
as the song continued, the boxelder began
to shake like the rest, and by the final
cadence of the prelude, the six spindles
carrying the bug curled like hooks under
its shell, lowering the boxelder bug
enough to allow a fraction less light
to fall underneath it, just like the rest.