You're fast
And brainy
The same age

You seem preoccupied
And don't respond
To question

Now and then
You'll swing
A cat

Trudging along
A line of scrimmage
Some kind of astonishment

Old fashioned
And furious
You come out
Of that line
Charging
In all directions

A shift glance
To get some sense
And controversy
A dash of wit

Is there such thing
As a curve ball?

Would you lose
Interest
If I told you,
No?

If you roam around my house,
              look about,
        up & down,
                           you'll find many paper cranes.

When I feel empty, I make so many,
                     and leave them random places.

You can find them here,
                and there,
          pretty much everywhere,
                              lined up on window panes.

I never felt the need to gather them,
                      and I most likely never will.

If I put them all together,
                 made sure it was forever,
           they could withstand the weather,
                             and there would be a thousand.
              
They say with a thousand cranes,
                       a wish is granted in your favor.

But I have no wishes,
               so I'll sleep with the fishes,
           after my hands tremble to the point of refrain
                                  & I can no longer make anymore paper cranes.

she’s kind of like a ghost
in that she’ll float in and out of the room
and touch the clock
that is so silly now

she’s kind of like a ghost
because she’s often
scared and lost
and she disappears
when you touch her

she’s kind of like a ghost
that I want to help
with her unfinished
business
but she can’t hear me say
her name

she’s kind of like a ghost
of a little girl who just needs
a friend

she’s kind of like a ghost
that dances with me under
that sheet she’s wearing

she’s kind of like a ghost
who can see how transparent
I am too

she’s kind of like a ghost
and I will wait for days
in the same spot
to see her pass through just
once

she’s kind of like a ghost
that makes me want to die
so I can maybe hold her
hand

she’s kind of like a ghost
and people tell me ghosts
aren’t real

a short bald man with
a big belly lives nearby
and from out of his furflesh cave
he peeks out once or twice a night
to remind me that he
is the only company I have any more
and he is the worst company to keep
he'll come over at the worst possible hours
while I am working
while I am crying
we'll party til he pukes
right in my lap

I want him out, I want him gone
I want to think.
He is the ghost that will light a fire
in someone's yard, spit in a face
and dash to leave me with the mess
I want to cut him out of my life, this
parasitic twin that drains all creation from
me

I was a good person until I
met him late on the computer screen
dial up noise, legs hoisted high
I was only looking for a magician
he crawled in to bed with me and
my green nightshirt went dark
and the wolf in my room
crusted over with rot and oil

don't step near the burning bush

beyond the drapes of his beard
billow his words, a balding, scalding heat
beyond your hands excusing their presence with no permission
rippling through caustic silk
that can't feel anything til the screaming
just to grab a hold of the trunk as an anchor
burnt to a ******* crisp inside your grip
roughly formed by rigor mortis
quickly turned to ash and swept away miles over the earth
long after your lungs have collapsed
curiosity killed the brats, a cosmic belch
broken down in his stomach acid as he chokes on his *****

so this must be the smell of burning flesh
the wheels of fate hopelessly buffering movement
against the hands of time, the worn brakes ******* into temples
which are coming loose
which are coming loose
which are coming loose
which are breaking in the middle of nowhere
with no one around
which must be the sound of death
thats so beautiful through the trees