Ghost Notes

Lord it’s been a long time since I’ve said hello to myself.    It’s been so long since I’ve called the rooster’s song.  A long time since I’ve blown the trumpet of dawn with my own breath.  A long time since I’ve turned a blind eye to whore’s alley because I’ve been asleep for so many grainy blow-jobs against the loose brick wall holding my life in place.

The sand slips between memory and wishes where ghost notes are written and never sent.  Sun glints off the pink cliff-house setting color on fire above the rocks.  There are places where ankles break, there are places where skin numbs with ice, and these places wait for visitors to seek protection in the dark wool air and are tricked into devastating traps.

Whole cities disguise themselves into Atlantis luring the broken fish of the sea to seek salvation between the oxygen and the horizon.  Shoals full of glass and waves juggle the light and the depth with the precision of a clock-keeper and hold the injured with hypnotic visions projected like amateur theatre against the bald rocks of the tide pools.

This is where I play.  This is where I play the records of memory over and over until they become arteries of false communication.  Where I throw up my wishes like facts.  Reaching for the voice of my muscles beyond the human ear, beyond the limitations of sight.  You can see it all in salt.

There are no shoes for this.  There are no colors to throw out the window of our summer that can describe the perfume of our tipping hopes and over-ripe lusts for the flesh of peaches and the corpse of hunger.

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