About ghosts, I said, it seems we’re at a bit of an impasse. It’s less about what I believe and more about what I claim to understand. STOP! For gods sakes, speak plainly. Honestly, i’m sick of the way you talk. Well, sure. I mean, yes, I am sure. Sure that you are. Truly, unremarkably, I am an unsure person. However, while you tediously, perpetually, seemingly inscrutably, constantly remind me of this fact, it has no bearing on our friendship. Much less our conversation about ghosts. Listen. Do you believe in ghosts or not? … Well first, I — NO! NO! SHUT UP. SHUT UP. NO. I don’t need your history. I know your history. Quit dancing around the question and answer it, do you believe in ghosts or don’t you! … I’m
sorry, he said. No. I understand. If it’s clarity you need then I will try my utmost. I breathed a deep sigh.
Such a simple word; ‘no’. But as it spilled out of my mouth i felt an array of history. Rich, true, and honest, history. Untenably my own. No, I continued, I cannot bring myself to believe in ghosts. I do however– please, allow me to entertain my own thoughts … I do however recognize a ghost’s existence as necessary. And it is because I see its existence as necessary that I choose to live in unity with the ghost that I may not see, may not know, and may not believe.
i was reading in a car catching words by each streetlight the words were spaced too far apart i nearly quit when i had a thought what order of letters got me here my primal form is no Shakespeare and i know you think this is nothing new to think about life as more than something to do but if it’s just words then i feel free to say that i don’t really care about my birthday so if i could act on any thought would my faith be less distraught i gave it a chance and i found the end there’s no life in lifeless ends
if this car stopped i could read my book and catch the words at one time by now the metaphor is getting old life is change and that’s not so bold i feel the culmination of grief in my young life and a raging ache behind each blue eye an anonymous person says, ‘are you okay?’ i said i’m fine and that was true but i wish there was more that i could do so why don’t i do it you could say but first i should eat before i rot away
God is good and that’s all great but i miss his voice if that’s okay
i figured out what’s happening there’s a foreign place inside my veins it’s reaching out to grab me and whether i need it isn’t up to me it’s deep inside like some small thing a needy voice that grabs me
so when my mind freezes, i’m listening you shouldn’t be afraid
there’s got to be a safer place for you to be than here with me
1993 FALL God’s gift to me was making me left-handed. It’s not a gift, really. Not in the traditional sense. Plenty of people have gifts. It seems damn near everyone you know has something they do, something that makes them them. I had a friend, said he’d never do anything valuable in his life. Said he’d never done it and can’t see him doin’ it. Last Spring he called and told me he was moving to Kings County. Said he won the lotto. Opened a bagel shop down on third with a view of the Creek. Called it Creekside Bagels. I asked him once what it is I do and he told me I’m left-handed and you don’t see that much. I’m not sure he meant it. But it stuck with me.