A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket.
You can always trust a Tealight
to warm the neglected beetles
that cling to your chest.
This ritual of the staring contest
Eyes that shift the room temperature
behind your curtain.
With attention,
uncomfortable attention
when you blink at the Rorschach shadows.
Tell me, they are not mailboxes.
The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement
birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches,
attempting to disprove the illusion
that ghosts aren't real
you aren't real
If you, ghosts, or ladybugs are real
I'll stare 'till death do us part
I must, stare...
I must witness all I love
to it's end.
To lose a staring contest to a ghost is to
never prove that ghost is an illusion.
Blinking, disturbs reality.
I don't need any
more obsessions that appear red
with black spots.
I used to stare at the sun.
It's bad luck
to **** lady bugs....
How lucky am I
to witness death?
Is attention a weapon?
Is attention a weapon?
I would **** more...