There are things that haunt me
Secrets define who I am
I close the door and turn the lock
Safety feels like sham
Dangerous monsters lurk nearby
Darkness all I see
Loneliness and her sister Sorrow
Dance perfect harmony
The burden of reminiscence
Punishment at which I excel
Love affair gone wrong with life
Scorned gives me constant hell
The missing pieces of soul
Like vanished footage erased
Past the ****** aiming for assassination
Of veil in which my emotions are encased
The moon holds multiple mysteries
Keeps promises telling zero lies
Age old tale of cat and mouse
The whispers of sad lullabies
There are skeletons buried in the dirt
Eyes have all but forgotten
By random coincidences covered
Under the surface are rotten
Icarus flew too close to sun
Descended into freezing space
Brokeness and beauty of insanity
Adorned fall with grace
I seethe with envy for sky
Winged creatures flapping to and fro
In a moment of quiet reflection
Wish I too could flee the snow
I scribbled letters in stardust
To tattoo upon brain
Guaranteeing I not ever forget
"Love is only masqueraded pain"
A warning woven through blood
Explanation for why I am colder
Despite the layer of frost on my heart
Old flames continue to smolder
The brief flickering nostalgia
Warms bones deeper than whiskey strong
Melting into fond memories
The present is where my attention belongs
And I am snapped into reality
Like broken rubber band
Scrambling to gather footing
Struggling to understand
Why emotions like glass just shatter
Under slightest pressure on skin
More I try to solidify foundation
Harder it shakes pillars within
It's difficult these days to view the light
Night amplifies anguish I feel
Halls of my head are teeming with ghosts
Each a scar that will never fully heal

I have long been acquainted, with the propaganda of the dead,
A crow alights a chiseled stone,
On a leaning ledge,
I wish to leave it alone,
I let my husky lead me to the forest edge.
As if it knew I would evade,
I stumble over a marker grave,
I sigh, for on it was an electrode,
One that I recently tried to replace,
On a steam boiler,
At my older friend's decrepit place,
Who died upstairs,
As I worked in the basement below,
" My father died in this bed,
And that is how I will go."

                        *
The day before, a black cat ran out from this neglected yard,
" Thats not good,"
While we drove in his old Buick beat-up car,
I thought only heathen lore,
Then I saw his lonely bedroom light on,
As he returned my calls no more,
And outside my home,
" Lost Cat, Named Lucky"
And a handsome reward.
                     *
Like Datura growing in this graveyard grass,
That only opens when the visiting hours have past,
My childhood was like the evening primrose,
Of this neglected ground,
That blossomed only under the moon,
With no other soul around.
And many more occurences than these,
More than Datura's delirious seeds,
My friends lonely bedroom light–
From the street,
Like white petals at night–
Wasting his electricity.
                          *
Lucky has moved into a nearby charred out house,
Like a shadow he enters in,
From a shadow he comes out,
I knew that family growing up,
When will the builder clear that lot?
Days ago a happy facade, now is not.
Datura unfurls her blossoms,
To a blackened home, on a blackened plot.
                            *
Oh Datura, a shadow now calls out to be free,
In a voice sisterly,
Is it true you give sight like no one else,
A midnight stroll, during the light of day,
Fog rises, gestures to me, then dispels,
The moon flower is in full array,
The nightclouds of your seeds,
I am benighted,
The sun has set and now I see,
I hear the attic door opening,
Out runs a young girl–
Hugging me.
Lucky stalks down the charred steps,
A bedroom light fades,
The wan moon is coming to an end,
The morn shall light upon your face,
Your flowers will unfurl again,
No longer to starry night, no longer in shadow space.

tenement roofs illuminated not by stars, not by grace, but by the flickering hum of a busted neon sign, half a block down, where the laundromat breathes steam into the night, and someone’s mother folds shirts like prayers.

the tar is soft under bare feet, summer’s last gasp clinging to the gravel, and the pigeons, they don’t sleep, they just blink slowly as if remembering something from before the city learned to forget.

a boy throws a paper plane from the sixth-floor fire escape. it loops once, then dives into the alley, where a cat watches with the patience of old gods.

the air smells of fried onions, like rain that hasn’t arrived yet, and the sigh of a man who’s been waiting for a phone call since 1993.

someone laughs, too loud, too sudden, and the sound ricochets off the satellite dishes like a warning or a dare.

the roofs glowed, not golden, not holy, but with the kind of light that makes you think maybe ghosts wear sneakers and hum pop songs while tracing the outline of their old bedrooms in dust.

and somewhere below, a radio plays a song no one remembers the name of, but everyone knows the words.

The ghosts remain
Long after the pain.
Haunting this sagging haunting house,
Whispering to me,
We’re lonely lonely lonely.
Need more friends in this rotting haunted human home.
The house rots around me,
A house I cannot escape-
On house arrest for crimes I do not remember committing.
You can paint it how you want, they hiss
But we will remain.
They hide just free from view-
They come out in the dark when only I am home.
The ghosts do love to reminisce,
they’re a cruel nostalgic bunch.
Remember why we have come, they say
Or bring more ghosts so our voices may get through.
“I will bring you more” I sigh-
They laugh at my submission.
Soon this house will collapse,
More ghosts than foundation.
But until then or until they cease their wails,
I will bring more ghosts by the day,
Until the supports completely fail.

Who would walk this airless swamp?
Or bike this muggy path,
For if you slow down to a saunt,
The finger grass scratches and the flies attack.
Perhaps the Massachusett fleeing from Myles Standish' blade,
Like starving phantoms behind black swamp trunks,
Their children hushing in dense river grape.

Im well acquainted with Norman greed,
And want to escape it for the day,
But I see a ribbon latched onto something green,
Can't quite possibly swallow it, but won't let it get away.
I get back on my bike, like always try to forget,
And find the eastern Blue Hill passage,
As a speeding portage over the fly sipping rivulet.

They catch me all the same,
Can't pedal past the buzzing in my ear,
How the archival wetland drains,
The tree roots hit hard and knock the chain out of gear.
I walk my bike by the bridle down a narrow funnel,
The water is idle over planked footbridge,
Amongst the potent poison umbel.

I find an old rusted vehicle gate,
Leading to a long aborted highway road,
At midnight the path was saved,
As if this ghostly wetland could vote.
The hardtop was pierced by **** and scrub,
This isolated courtyard bordered by ravines ,
And tortured by the sun.

I walk the barren courtyard to the hills,
A misty bluish humid outskirt,
I walk the courtyard until,
I see a worker with a whitish shirt,
Then I dont know if I really saw it,
" You cannot enter here" –then got down on his hands–
With antlers–gallopped into the humid forest.

For some time I stayed there staring,
An arrowhead of flaked obsidian at my feet,
Amongst the scrub pierced hardtop of courtyard barren,
That pointed back to my path, barring east,
"To Fowls Meadow" I must have missed it on my left,
Under a locust tree,
That caused it to sparkle from its fine leaf net.

I ride down, to a massive tree overturned,
The roots and earth were in the sky,
In the massive hole something burned,
A knapped glass arrowhead, of yellow light.
It did not seem to be of yellow chert,
Strange!
Under five hundred years of dirt.

I had enough of this twisted place,
Verged in toxin, which I am immune,
I double time to pick up the pace,
Past hydric black mud of airless doom,
And the choking frogs one note song,
In eye thirsty thorns,
That you must unzip before moving on.

It opens up in a plain,
My bike startles many blackbirds up,
Their red streaked wings rise as flames,
Below the Meadow dust,
But there is something at my fore,
A doe's tail?
Swinging softly back and forth.

A girl! Amongst the Meadow way out here?
Walking non chalantly between
the riverine,
With music in her ears,
Is it real or do I dream?
Her shoulders must have been my mirage
Glistening in a cut white shirt,
In a beautiful decolletage.

I could not possibly pass her,
Without giving her a fright,
Due to her music I could not ask her,
So I dismounted my bike.
Half clad–elegantly so,
Clad in beautuful nature,
Like the buff-brown slender doe.

I walked my bike beside the reins,
All the Meadow was colored brass,
Lost in her french braids,
As the sun behind stained glass.
Gathered the courage, to look upon her face–
Scared that it would be concealed,
And like a seraphim fly away.
She smiles beautifully,
I tell her I love her, she can't hear a word I say,
Then I gallop down the dusty trail–
And disappear into the river grape.