the Loneliest of Ghosts

 

 

Here, feel the desperate-sad,

Ready-to-expire character

Surrounding the deserted,

Edge of mid-town buildings;

The ones avoided by rats

And shunned by even

The loneliest of ghosts.

Here, glimpse the eyeless,

Broken-pained windows

That briefly grasp at  skypieces

But fail to hold their interest.

Holes where slates once held

A certain vertigo-sway,

Injured-bone joists,

White tumbled bricks,

Floor without full boards,

Webs without cobs …

Stairs without risers.

There’s nothing here –

Neither arch nor fair, and

I cannot say there ever was,

Being stranger here myself,

With doors to lock,

Promises to keep

And ways to make.

Ghost o’ the Blues.

Whip-poor-will guilt -bucket is a tempting dark pit

Filled with born-too-soon moon blues;

My po’ blister’d goin’-nowhere-fast feet don’t fit

My muddy-water, busted shoes.

A fractional tip of another-too-far mile

Weight of the world, tear-blade shoulder

Just ain’t possible fo’ single man-chile

To feel more deserted or get any colder.

Murder’s Professor

Fierce-proud crow-piper am I

On Prospero’s good-wind, miller days,

Born of winter raven-burn,

Murder’s elegant professor,

Confessor to fictions.

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