Ghosts never talk to the landscape.
I mean, the words disappear as fast
As the bottles of brandy, and the rain
Means as little as another century
To a housefly. It is funny to gape at the relentless stars
And coyotes and policemen of a stolen hour,
When you know that time is the worst toothpaste
Ever made. Thunderbolts and shivering dogs
Make me laugh. I do love them.



ghosts flaunt aspen twigs threaded through the eyes
they are shy but able to steal the first
words you say entering the city
they store them in the places shunned by the authorities
dusty garrets stinking underpasses and sleazy banks of disappearing rivers
for the fishy poets of displeasing generations to discover
duty free stores are brimming with them as well as traffic lights all around
they hate the smell of tobacco but like to smoke rolled-up newspapers
and drink cheap wine from used plastic bottles in the parks
no matter how much you love them they have no use for verbs
they can tell your future though if you wish to know


ghost on the brink

The best creatures choose to live fragmentary lives in novels and dreams
To crawl across pixelated ceilings on an average day
Impossible for a cumbersome ghost on the brink of a greasy fork
Meanwhile all my shoes are afraid of the sky
All my money abhors shopping malls
I believe the scars of the air dissolve
Into trees and torn soccer balls and angel’s wings for breakfast
Antediluvian birds dance around a dying dandelion
Asking each other how many days their stomachs could hold


a pair of derbies

In a town like that, you keep meeting quite often
A boy with a bicycle on his shoulder
And a very tall woman wearing sunglasses.
They invariably ask you the same question
And go away along silent streets without
Listening to your reply,
Followed by a cloud of mosquitoes.
Even if they had an address, it would be invalid.
I don’t believe the sound of their steps,
I don’t believe their bare feet, the words
They forget to utter, the red skirt,
The pair of derbies, and other attire,
The little fingers pointing at pigeons and blackbirds,
Pointing at the moon that can barely exist overhead
When there is such a low death rate among emperors,
The rum they drink right out of the bottle,
The coins and cigarette butts they throw from the bridges.


Ghosts have always enraged the living
by their manner of sleeping, for example:
not a snore, not a cry of terror,
legs in Alabama, head on Hokkaido,
sleepwalking out of the question too,
indifferent whether you find them
boring or not, bombastic and lazy in the extreme,
careless about their rotten limbs,
they ruminate our words, bullets and knives
just like the League of Liberated Cows.

{from the comments on cease}