a haunting

Hardly anyone believes me when I tell them
I’ve seen ghosts on the banks of the river.
They dwell just beyond the half-hearted reaches
and pensive fingertips of my dim headlights,
and in the corners of my eyes.
I used to write off the ineffable as coincidence,
when the stars would disappear
and the street lamps suddenly turned off—
as though they were snuffed out—
or when the car radio would dial into haywired
frequencies that did not exist.

I have seen shadows darting between the worn
headstones of soldiers from the civil war
that embroider the river road;
they sometimes coalesce at the crests
of the Indian burial mounds.
I have counted the weathered crosses
marking accidental drownings,
and I have, on more than one occasion,
noted my headlights reflecting off of
hundreds of glistening shards
of broken glass from fatal automobile accidents,
and the iced road is just so beautiful
I momentarily forget
the scene is supposed to be tragic.

I used to consider these fleeting apparitions precocious
and light-hearted reminders of the transience of life,
and I was humbled, and thankful.
Until one night, I saw tall, delicate figures,
standing stagnant; gaunt and gauzy,
wrapped in reams of drapery
darker than the seas at night.
Some pointing out to the river,
others, merely watching.
Although their faces were masked by the depths of their hoods,
I knew, with every fiber of my being, that they saw me.
With gazes stronger than the molding oranges in my kitchen,
burning holes right through the countertop,
I was certain they could see into my soul.

I remembered six years back, seeing
a similar silhouette tightly clutching the banister
as it leaned over the railing of my staircase,
just staring at me.
I remembered my heart beating so hard it was painful.
I remembered looking again and seeing an empty hallway.
I remembered all the times I wanted to die and suddenly knew I was not ready.
When I told my mother, she questioned my sobriety;
I promised her I hadn’t dropped acid since I was sixteen.
“I’ve seen those damn things every single time I drive down that road,” I asserted.
“Some things in life just cannot be explained,” she offered,
“This is when we pray.”

Sure, we are so brave during the day,
armed with company and our faith,
and guarded by the sun.
But as the sun dips beneath the treetops
and the shadows begin to stretch across the land
I’m willing to bet that even if I paper-mached my car in bible pages
no amount of praying would save me from the night
or protect me from the dark.

.

and I hate how you've affected me the way you have.

throw me a bone.

I feel more than eligible.
I feel more than able.
I feel more than worthy.
I feel more than capable.
I feel more than prepared.

Let me show you what I've got tucked up my sleeve.

hallucinations.

Last night I bought two bottles of wine,
and I hallucinated your name written on one of them.
But when I woke in the morning—
with a headache to such a painful degree—
I knew I had drank them both by myself.

I could have sworn I heard your voice
echoing in the belly of my guitar
and resonating off of its strings.
I must have been mistaken.

restrung and rejuvenated.

As winter takes its final parting shots—
rouging my pale cheeks strawberry red one last time,
and trimming and embroidering the windowpanes with frosted tracery,
inscribing in the latticed glaze an icy vow to return again next year
in elegant, needle-laced, crystalline calligraphy,
I can’t help but resign that surviving this season
wasn’t as hard as I had anticipated;
winter was relatively tame.
The weather didn’t turn my tricks to rust,
I didn’t lose any limbs to the cold,
I kept my heart incubated,
and even though I had to literally dig myself out of winter
I made it out unscathed.
And I once again find myself
out on the front porch, perched in a wicker chair
next to my kindred company,
armed with coffee and cigarettes,
spells and charms,
freshly restrung guitars and the devil’s crossroads blues,
bathing in the sunlight,
rejuvenated by its rays,
ready to take on the world.

the golden age.

And as we sat exchanging anecdotes and theories,
I couldn’t help but feel particularly Roman:
draped in silken sheets and woven pashmina shawls—
hand-spun from the finest wool and stitched with hundreds of colors of thread—
sipping sweet red wine, bottled almost two decades ago,
lounging on cushioned fainting couches
arranged around a beautiful coffee table,
feasting on bars of bitter dark chocolate
and smoking rolled tobacco of the most delectable Turkish blend—
the living room was our colosseum
and that night, we were royalty.
We discussed poetry and politics,
art and the apocalypse,
love and life.
We fantasized about being famous
and how one day our great works of art and fiction
would be published and analyzed in the universities.
Like Hemmingway and Gertrude Stein
in their parlors, everyone would talk about
how we too collected in the same social circle,
and sat around inspiring each other.