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For Argument sake

How does wind blow through your ears,

But yet, you never hear?




Her Ghost


She was the only one that I know of, that is able to hold onto a ghost.

Not just hold, but cradle and adore that pronunciated eidolon. She made him hers, and really held to it with a faith of intrinsic knowing that is so rare for our kind.  It was sweet, and to me, so heart strainingly naive.

And more, she believed in the reality of her ghost. She made him real by that believing, and that was how she was able to caress him tenderly. Just like that,  with belief. That was all that it took for her to bring his universe to reality.

How fucking credulous!?

Even me in all my finesse and athleticism, I have never been able to touch the invisible and dance with it.

How she did it, I don’t have even the faintest clue?

But there she was in front of me, twirling and giggling. She was so carefree that she floated a full inch above where the rest of us trudge and leave footprints.

Her ghost of him, made her buoyant and graceful, and she radiated from her core the love that she carried for him. She loved him with her whole actuality.

I couldn’t see him, her ghost.

But because of her,  and how I witnessed  her smile as she turned circles,  I too completely believed in him.

I didn’t have to see him, she saw for me. I believed in that greater achievement, because of her.

But then my skepticism whispered my own ghosts of doubt and disappointments.

How do you tangibly create substance of matter from memory and emotion, and build a fortress of diamonds from love unrequited?

Isn’t that backwards?

Where was her hate, that if it was me,  I would be seething in?

How does one hold to that, in a foul and despicable world?

But she clung to her reality of him, and bore the heartache of loving an apparition in full ownership.

She churned the sadness of salty souls of it into healing sunshine of love, all in the twirls of her billowing free flowing skirt.

Each rotation of twirl, strengthened her grip on the invisible. It mesmerized and it hypnotized, and strengthened her vise grip on me.

It made me want what only she could see.

It made me want her.

I needed her ghost.

So I believed.

I embraced the madness, and twirled a misaligned figure eight to join her ghost in a menage a trois number in the middle of our created dance-floor of fairy told dreams.






Greedy roots outstretched for alms

Scavengers are inflated for sunlit cons

As dirtied laundry wedgies hide in cracked nail beds

Dissolving the bones hidden in closets of newlyweds

Sunburn their hearts filled with cemented spite

To jump off cliffs from death defying heights

All for the fame of nine innings at bat

But you must be a fool, for we all smell a rat

Double-crossed gamble with streets stinking hoodwinked

Organized crime of goodfellas,  the chaos has you linked

Kiss that stub of a finger and pay your phoney respects

This is murder for hire, an addictive but antiqued retrospect




Butterfly Fancy



A creature of secrets,

One that never reveals

Believing nomadic life

Is one that is ideal


Abandon peculiar curiosity

Spurning all those who judge

Stalking, arms distance

Before pretty warblers begrudge


Cares of shabby shrubbery

Are scintilating delight

Kissing children’s noses

Their imagination takes flight











Comfort Eating

Emotions escape by us all. Those dodgy lowball bullets of confidence, maybe a bit sifted through with those antiqued sieves and then stamped counterfeit, squeak in retreat.

‘Give sentiment, be not sentimental,’ she chides the king of cake.

As is the lady’s way of dismissed privilege, to chide, not knowing the first thing about silver plates or bullets.

Later in cloaked midnight, temporary airs are discarded. Apparitions appear all the same while laughing in platinum frosting.

It was that moment, I myself, felt domestically feral. Turning to make contracts of tears that bite hands, and feed on others guilty pleasures.

Open wounds of the heart only heal, when the chocolate is buttered, creamed, and gloved in silk.



Patchwork Heart

The seamstress’s original stitching may be a tad frayed,

Daily beatings has reversed tanned it’s leather to suede.

Years of wet tears have damaged the only wooden parts,

But there’s a magical thread stitched in this old Queen’s heart.

The broken pieces have expertly been sewn back in its shape of a box,

Crafty resembling my younger one, so mysterious it’s flummox.

Before the first slivered shatter of my happy heart happened,

Before life showed me truth and tried to color my heart blackened,

I wasn’t as strong and advanced as it is now,

The magical seamstress sewed into it the strength of a vow.

She added in hope and forgiveness with it’s threads,

And  taught me bravery in no hesitation with sending love widespread.

It was her kindness that made me who I am today

She saved me from my self-hate, her beautiful influence had me swayed.

Her sewing abilities have claimed me an original art,

All because she gave kindness, mending my patchwork heart.