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...