there have been a few ghosts

following me

I can hear them

singing

in misty alleyways

and I know

sometimes whiskey

makes the ears want more

from the wind than it can give

but the heart beats better

to hymns

and these memories are dying

to give rhythm to my limbs

I know they are ghosts

because they all share

the same voice

me, oh, my,

whiskey plays its tricks

on the ears

on the mind

and I hear that song

you would sing

when you wanted to dream

but couldn't fall asleep

in the beginning there was
the noun
and the noun was made verb
and here i am
shining apples
kicking curbs

in the beginning there was
a sound
and whatever it disturbed
but where’s the plan?
lost in battles,
under herds

and backs were patted far too soon.
something syntactic,
obscure, obtuse

in the beginning there was
a whisper
a thousand names for God
no zealous blood-thirst
over pronunciation flaws

in the beginning there was
a disco ball
it made the ballroom move
but the critics don’t care at all;
it’s a fad they outgrew.

in the beginning there was
a request
for cells to be stirred
and the relief was made flesh
and then there was the word

but nothing else was heard

all the metronomes have melted

all the metronomes have melted

in the stagnant summer months

and we can’t keep a beat

to save our lives

though our spines are loose

and our fists are tight

ba-dum-dum-dum bop

ba-dum-dum-dum bop

I’m sick of moaning

for my masculinity

I want to scream, like him,

for the lost spirit of man

while

stomping up and down the stairs

and then charging

into the living room,

and smashing the coffee table

into a thousand splintered bits.

and everyone, leaping behind couches

and into corners, spilling drinks,

will shriek

“my god what is he doing?”

and, settling into the love seat,

aristocratic ahem,

I will cross my legs

quite calmly

and assure them all

it is simply

a particular native dance

passed down

by my not-so-distant ancestors,

assure them all

it is quite natural.