Tag Archives: JS

My ghost’s primary victory speech

8

My ghost’s primary victory speech

I will first ask the mountains to stop counting.
Four hours after midnight I will wake my body.

I have done this a lot lately but he can’t take a hint.
I will say first I am happy nobody could be here tonight

Next I will say first nothing has been certified
Nothing has been sanctioned nothing needs to be

Said first I will say that first and then I will move
My body’s finger across the lever of night

I will do that first because nothing comes next
So it all has to be said first and hasn’t he said it

All already can’t he wake up long enough to
Lie by the open window looking nowhere

Through the silence of mountains and
See where this is going and do the math

There’s only one ballot to count but
So loud In their spring are the starlings

Wednesday the 11th [from “The Week,” a series of 7 poems leading up to Friday the 13th]

Wednesday the 11th

The small city’s skyline is low-slung
Like tired dogs. A TV antenna, decades

Unused and tilted from last century’s
Storms — that could be my silhouette

Against the quiet valley gloaming —
Left out like a boy raising his hand

In a classroom emptying of light.

Five Devastating Kicking Techniques

Five Devastating Kicking Techniques

kick

Pancake kick
Sit down into the kick
And spread out until you are irresistible.

Trophy kick
Hold a single moment mid-kick
Perfectly balanced and do
Not move the rest of your life

Winter Weather Warning kick
Promise vengeance. Promise no mercy.
Then walk softly and meekly past.
Then kick a week later.

Spring kick
Turn your kick into soft raindrops
That hurt nobody. Immediately
A million small green kicks emerge.
People come outside and beg to be kicked.

Love kick
Kicking the habit is
Just another kick.

March 4th

treeshadow

March 4th

Suddenly it’s spring. The trees say so.
They don’t confer with the cold

Morning or mountain gusts. They don’t
Ask if we’re ready. The maple says, mind this–

And flecks with red punctuations like starting
A sentence backward, all the year’s statements

With their periods, leaving language to unfurl at its
Own, slower, pace. The trunk’s shadow runs down the slope

Like a creek then rivulets of branches reach across
The road towards your porch like it has

Something to tell you, only you. But come closer:
You must get up and step into the road

To see what it means, trickling black
At your feet. And definition depends

On surfaces for the depths to survive:
Too late you see how at its outermost edge

the message in twig shapes
Crumbles across the texture of street

Pebbles, first like a word breaking into syllables,
Then slight sounds of insistence or regret,

Then a breath then the thought somebody
Was about to speak but you turned to see no one,

Then your own breath, held, while you are
Listening for its shadow

Imposter Syndrome

Imposter Syndrome

1.
Driving

The width of the white wall
On either side of six

Inches of air is all
That connects

You to the ground
Speeding beneath

You to the past

2.
Wormaxio

Monsters wait at the margins.
Tackling anything head-on

Kills you

3.
Asleep

Sometimes wondering
If everything I do when

Awake if everything
Good is the dream time

I call you
To tell me I’m wrong

Because I could
Not dream you

Last Days

Last Days

Told me to wait another two nights.
and the truth would rise like ice cubes

In a celebratory drink. Without taste
But accentuating the taste that’s there

Already, then adding volume to it
While weakening the taste but by then

It’s not the taste you’re after is it and where
Has it got to finally, absorbed, invisible?

The moon looks full but it’s not. Not that
It matters but it does. Like other things

That never happened but did anyway
And because they never happened never end

Ghost

ghost driveway

Ghost

It comes back           in the framework of an ache
New to the knee           though you’ve had no injury
Stretching           and the gap closes instantly
Between confidence           and a death you’ve seen already

It’s not a ghost           which keeps you up at night
It’s certainty           any telltale pain appearing suddenly
The ghost is           your memory, incomplete, waiting
The last memory           that it comes back.