The spectres of the past 

That haunt me 

Causing me extreme pain that 

I feel I can not handle 

At the moment 

But I know I 

Will oust these ghosts

From my life

Not the other way around

id was created
by ego go figure just
a fell ghost to blame

If it's true,
and you know it is,

sister, money don't grow,
on the tree of life, oh, no,

toil and pain and sorrow,
those grow,
on the tree of life, outside

these walls of mud faith bakes,
and builds heroic as formal evidence,
by grace alone, the blessing on America,

Oi, where Chickasaw whole life awaken dance
hey hey yahweh, same dance same sacred idea

We got StarLink in Chad,
oh, when can we read the heresies
personal savior level lucky prayer
online, free from press, amen.

All amenable Kilroy, was  here.
We pulledhisassoffhisthrone
with thunder words,
and other nonsense
We learned
to read, and write
shocking truths no slave should know,
money, has all kindsaansworn NDAs
there's the tie, the business
religion, re attaching
ligamental forces,
pending dooms
used
to make the peasants pay
for joy,
ceremony
of the veterans, paid
with joy,
ai, we die…
all we celebrate,
and all we worship Ares,
and Elon's trip to Mars, and Hermes,

tricking me
into telling a preacher story,
truer or not, it is too soon
to say, stories
sometimes hook up
with old characters,

brought
to mind using ceremonial reminders,
put on your respected veteran medal
of wit,
let this mind be
in you, this military mind, eh
strut your stuff, you patriotic consciousnesses.

A bubble
of belief engulfed the big parade,
the ompa blat left behind.

We blinked. They won.

I came away with an alienated mind,
to this day, I am happy to say,
that has made the difference,
I lived, while others just died.

she wore a dress of silk that day
a coral comb set in her hair
to dress her curls a dark array
all black as night, as cold as air.

a sweet seductress so beware!
no man could ever win her charms
her beauty was a vision fair
a hellish haunt that death disarms.

she walked towards her lover's house
her soul was calling out to him
as quiet as a timid mouse
her pounding heart all silent sin.

for he was flesh and he was bone
and she a ghost, a cold temptress
and in her hair she wore a comb
to match the silk of her blue dress.

so how could any man resist
her ghostly spirit, cold as night
as if the very moon that kissed
the soulful sky that shone so bright

was hunting, searching night for him
her lover waited, knew her near
her ruby lips, the lanterns dim
in distant dreams she would appear.

she wore a dress of silk that day
a coral comb set in her hair
how could she so her love betray?
i'll tell the tale and climb the stair...

the moon a phantom all despair
he shook and then a deathly cry
she cut his throat, this vision fair
and flew from him across the sky.

they buried him beneath a tree
his life that languished at her hand
and now i'll end this fantasy
of ghoulish love in spirit land!

beware the witch, beware the knell
where ghosts do flaunt the midnight cold
for devil's pave the way to hell
and steal the souls that darkness sold.

(a poem in Senryus)

Let’s rerun the play,
take up strings, so the puppets
can start fresh their dance.

Summon the old ghosts—
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
—pronounce them reborn.

Recall the actors,
lead horses from their pastures,
raise the curtains.

Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Viola love anew.

Old, ever-hallowed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stage.

Human suffering,
live—don’t fret, you won’t miss it
—it’ll come to you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
End of the innocence by Don Henley
The Perfect Idiot by Fievel Is Glauque

In this dim night
before the dawn of All Saints,
no need to take fright
of the spirits you acquaint —
for they are merely the ones who went on before.

Beloved dead whom we miss
reenter the world of the quick
and blow us a kiss
with a treat but no trick —
as we celebrate their return from the dark shore.

Ornate iron bars that twist and swirl
on windows of a stone Baroque house:
Their billowing lines flow and unfurl
like the linen of a wan lady’s blouse.

Late sun casts her umbra on the stone wall,
a dark bramble of shadowy vines
that cling to the plaster in ways that recall
hung forests of lost memory and time.

Into this dark wood I walk with my mind
to retreat into the past of this place
and see how far the clock I can unwind
for to pass through its pale numbered face.

There faces now greet me, spirits of old
who once walked this very same street.
They look astonished at how I was so bold
as to travel there to warmly them greet.

To be remembered and seen once again
is a gift for which they’ve waited a year.
For as this day fades, the dark windowpanes
between our two worlds turn into a gauzy frontier.

And so the veil of the quick and the dead
turns thinner for just a brief night
while the faces of those who’ve gone on ahead
to the other side shine their dim light.