I’m tired of being         a ghost,

    of watching     people     pass

right through me         with only a chill

to take     from our interaction.

    No one visits     my grave anymore.

No one places     taut     fingers

    on a planchette     for me

to spin     around     a board.

I just     glide     from     room

to     room,     watching.

If I am to be stuck     here

    in the veil         between         worlds,

perhaps     I should start     being

more         malicious .     I could try

throwing             plates,                 slamming
    
doors    ,   opening     cabinet             drawers.

I could     haunt    their         ever      waking     days.

But     that’s not me, and.    

I don’t want to lose myself

in death. 

Voices raised in
harmony and synchrony
laying on hands to
guide and heal before breaking
bread, raising cup, say amen.

Sow seeds of kindness
Start a brushfire of love
Burn down a forest of evil
The muscle power of God

You know those words you scratched out today?
That poem?

The graphemes and phonemes that spellbound you with their call & response
and became a tent revival on a smouldering summer night…
Or did you think them dull? Paint slowly chipping away from a rusted handrail in a strip mall parking lot, watching a wilting in real time… 

No matter how you feel about them, that poem, those words, just as you laid them down – 

No human being has ever done that before.
Never in the whole history of everything.
Not the way you have,
not with that heartbeat
not with that tear

Just you.
It could only have been you. 
Your perfect fingerprint left on the windows of eternity as you peek through worlds

Just you, beautiful you. 

(so give yourself a break)

Today she turned a perfect
somersault on the porch,
a feat we’d never seen—
her black velvet coat
brushing fate. If only we
could so easily take a new
dare—sweep away fear,
for example, carefree
as a cat.

Golden grass swaying.

Silent breezes pushing back

Gently.

Yet after love I find,

Breezes singing, dancing fields

telling a story that’s

all too familiar.

I want Indian takeout.
I want Ozempic allegations.

I have two back teeth in desperate need
of a sweet treat and root canals.

God save the (Dairy) Queen
and IV sedation.

And the Keebler elves aren’t helping me get up.

Mind spinning,
I can’t get comfortable,
oh no, that’s a leg cramp
I get up and do stretches
then try again
counting sheep
trying to clear my mind
tossing and turning
my mind flashes to a memory
of a friend who has passed
a wave of grief
more tossing and turning
and counting elephants this time
will I ever get the rest my mind
and body both crave?
the cycle continues time
and time again
Should I give up and just get up?
that is the last thought I have 
before my alarm blares
insomnia is exhausting

time supposedly dulls pain
the phrase “time heals all wounds” enrages me!

time moves on
it forgets to stay with you
in grief
in anger
in contemplation

time discriminates in its involuntary movement
not a single look back
not a passing “how’s it going” uttered
nothing but perpetual absence 

time has the privilege of keeping a forward trajectory
when you are broken
when you cannot try again– today or ever–
when you are paralyzed 

time doesn’t dull pain
it stretches the ache thin
for others to hold
for your entire body to absorb in smaller doses
for you to think it is dull
for you to think you are healed

time is a trickster we can’t catch
and we pursue enternally