Apr 2016
Iām lost.
Inside a conversation
With a ghost,
Who keeps a case of beer,
On my back porch,
Year round.
I struggle.
With his take,
On things.
At best, he says, you perish in a fury,
His mouth a fresh full fill,
Raw oysters topped on spice baked kelp.
I wait.
To hear the worst.
His pause is theatre 101,
All fog and drama,
Ephemeral guest,
Sweet mist and ****.
I lean.
Against our red rose sun,
The window warm from spring to fall,
My back porch home a hobby now,
The worst he says, in adagio,
Is drudgery, no end at all.
Inside a conversation
With a ghost,
Who keeps a case of beer,
On my back porch,
Year round.
I struggle.
With his take,
On things.
At best, he says, you perish in a fury,
His mouth a fresh full fill,
Raw oysters topped on spice baked kelp.
I wait.
To hear the worst.
His pause is theatre 101,
All fog and drama,
Ephemeral guest,
Sweet mist and ****.
I lean.
Against our red rose sun,
The window warm from spring to fall,
My back porch home a hobby now,
The worst he says, in adagio,
Is drudgery, no end at all.
What prevents all of us from starting over, running the world in a completely different way, experimenting with new choices. Lennon's Imagine as our anthem. Dead too soon by the dark hands.
