Old men in dresses wave hands across baskets
casting magic spells on sausage and oranges
then hocus pocus over horseradish root as
thick as a forearm, potato-peeled later
we'll garnish meats with mystical power.

They expect us to kiss the ****** feet of
a God immortalized in plaster while granite
saints stand watching a procession of misty-eyed
martyrs shuffling down the aisle like sheep,
and all the while the bells are ringing.

Always the ringing of bells.

Bells rung by boys standing still
ring like angels.

The old men hold crackers up to the light,
then more bells and drinking of blood
and finally its done. They waddle down
the nave casting incense in a metronome spray.

The boys follow behind the hypnotic smoke,
their bells have been put away,
pall bearers of the crucified Christ
they lead us not into temptation,
rather deliver us out the doors
and into the street,
redeemed and safe behind
the hedge of numbing ritual.

I.

I sometimes dream I’m burning down
the bridges I have crossed,
the ones I’ve built
with words and deeds
that haunt me for no reason,
where paranoia rages
to the point of desperation,
and in my dream I’m wiring up
the bridges for destruction.

I strap them tight with dynamite
then light the wick,
the sizzle’s quick,
ka-boom! And they're exploding.
I sit and smoke a cigarette
and watch them fall completely
while listening to the music of
my past mistakes dispersing.
The sound is heavenly.

I close my eyes
and tilt my head
to take it in,
I feel at peace,
I fall asleep
or so I think,
instead I find I’m wide awake
and standing on the other side;
I haven’t crossed at all.
I’m still parading guilt around my head.

II.

I sometimes see beyond my view
and catch a glimpse of spirits,
its usually when I least expect
they cross my field of vision.
A peaceful ghost,
an evil ghost,
they both exist,
I’ve seen them come
from places where we’d not survive
and minds could not conceive.

I’ve witnessed them in houses through the years,
in houses seized by hell
where every corner walked around
a chill ran down my spine
and creaking walls
and darkened halls
would prompt a quicker step,
those houses where
the shadow beasts and dancing trees
once filled my heart with fright.

III.

But not this house,
I have to say the spirits here are kind.
I cannot lie
I’ve often tried
to find them here,
in sleepless nights,
in midnight gloom,
in shadows cast
across the rooms and porch and yard,
surprisingly they can’t be found,
at least the ones who seek to strip the soul,
they seem to stick to houses
that are far removed from me,
those evil houses without love                                                             ­                                                                 ­                
      
and far away across the fields of dreaming-
on other sides of bridges.

The roads I drive to work
are scarred -  all of them
like the people who pass me,
they think themselves important
they all lie
these roads
are patched and worn
and trying to look whole
the lines  scraped away, replaced by
intermittent ******* painted over scars,
mistakes that can’t be hidden
but I feel them
when I cross their grooves and ridges
like malice and envy -
open your eyes dipshits!
don’t be afraid - hell
my whole life is a mistake
without which I wouldn’t have words
slow down and feel the roads you’re living on
or at least look at them-
*******

I  think  he  likes  to sit out back
                             where he once sat
with all his yard in view
  his chair is gone but he is there
                                    he sits in mine
                                   I saw him once
                      while pacing through
the house at 3 am
                       I stopped and stared
                       and rapped the glass
to see if he’d respond
                                                  instead­              
he looked away..
                
      he must have heard novenas
for the dead..
      
                         I saw his tired stare
                                        the thin hair
                         on his balding head
wispy with static electricity
  the liver spots across his brow
                       a prominent display
of reckless living                    
                                 his body lay flat
against the chair
               like a life-sized playing card
                         with hands and feet
from Alice in Wonderland

                                             I wonder
does he miss the rabbits?

                  I looked for him again
                                             last night
                            at quarter after 2
           I wanted to tell him its ok
   to use my chair to reminisce..
  
               nostalgia tends to look
                                             like love
to those who are without..

                 perhaps another night
                            I’ll see him there
                              within my chair
and maybe we can talk
I’d do my best to comfort him
             and put his mind at ease
                             about the things
he’s now without
        like this old house he built
                                        I’d tell him
I will be there soon
                                    soon enough
from his perspective
                                            by grace
50 years from mine                
                we’ll sit and talk about
                  the days we lived and
loved here..

                              *I am not naïve
                    I know he is a ghost
but I am not afraid