There is a ghost in these small notions, a spirit spat out in the air about you like the exasperation of smoke from ash. There is a music that maligns your shadow, a sweetness that you exhume each time you awake. Every day you feed the beast, tangling memories and moments, senses and the dead letters that just trail on and on. Every day you are a poem, every evening a symphony. You trail through these myriad worlds like a comet, turning ice into plumes of brilliant light. From this entombed moment, shoots and sparks and symbol, into your living breath and blood. Whispering in your ear from another place, the past alive again in your eyes.
There is a chill upon my warm flesh, white t-shirt soaked through by a storm that crossed the Pacific to flood gutters and tear the mountains down. My eyes are dull and slow, laden with dead leaves and a thousand tasks left undone. Dead fall and acres of would be humus, the carbon trapped in the broken limbs of cellulose awaiting my blunt attention. I stretch and pop, abandoning a few layers of spent warmth, seeking the momentary respite of a warm shower. Trading one downpour for another, this apocryphal dose, this hair of the dog. Then I shed the few words that accumulated over the morning. I sprinkle a few placeholders for the voices that fall from the sky, from the songs that seep up through the drowning earth. Something sharp, something sweet. Something that will wake me from my sleep.
You have your hours, you have your aches. Your have your measured handfuls, your chores and revelations, your comforts and your joys. There is the work of this made-up world, then there is the work of living. The world goes on and on whatever the circumstances. Your hardships and secrets and sweet nothings stored away for whatever myth or truth might pursue. You might peal away like thunder, you might light a candle to bless the night. For this moment I will join you in your gardens and your jungles, mingle with your voice and stillness, settle my gaze beside your windows and your walls. For this moment I will linger in the dust and the draperies, I will steal some burden or awake your treasured dead. Here I am, another ghost bleating out visions of futures copied from the crib sheets of yesterday's cheap fictions. Here I am, to haunt your house with these brittle incantations, alive only until you deem it otherwise.