I didn’t pay the bills electric,
now no lights electric,
just a fluid glimmer—
the ghosts from yesterday
illuminate my ectoplasmic reading.
Outside a spinning wind is rising,
furrowing the earth and sky,
and on the far horizon, mechanical invaders
with razored paddle wheels
scalpel air to vortices,
curling slinkies that cannot be
The doors and windows rattle and shiver;
the nervous ghosts are clustered
at stagnation points,
compressed in cupboards and corners.
One’s a blur, a cloud of butterflies, albino,
and a disembodied voice.
Might I summarize?
A consortium of ghosts, unpaid bills, inclement weather,
and of reality,
not a sprinkle.
Help me with the house, I say,
we’ll seal it like an ebay purchase,
with cardboard, foam and shrink wrap.
I think not. It’s best that we go free,
and she calls to all the others,
Who will join me?
We’ll face the turbulence together.
A window cracks and shatters, they’re drawn outside
to airborne dissipation,
Except for their liaison officer
who’s holding tight to me.
You lied to them.
Every lover lies,
love’s language is convenience, not truth.
Put your glasses on.
The blur has coalesced—
a human, close enough,
it’s still a little breezy though,
and she whispers in my ear:
I never feel more alone
than when I’m here with you.
- Bernouilli’s principle—when the pressure falls in a moving fluid, other fluids may be entrained, also ghosts.
- I sing the body electric, originally a Walt Whitman poem (1855), used by Ray Bradbury as the name for his 1969 short story collection. Apart from the content, a marvelous title. Icing the body electric would be good too.
- Ana Carolina, 8 Estórias (Portuguese).