alkalized haunt when the stranger
walked a long way, set a briefcase
down and let loose the sum of his urges.
it felt like a known town psychopath sojourning the flower shop.
the ghosts were quietly assessing the imminence of this stranger’s lonely browse.
the anomalous tryst evinces gossip,
exudes presumption and dumb will,
makes a trace in the entrant’s left-steps out of dream fabricants.
the stranger paces and takes a watch assay that spews out an array of time and starts to overlap itself under the crowded haunt corners, the mire crackling where the roof panels have caved.
the stranger closes the briefcase,
considers a self-awarded monodrama.
intralogue calls for weary forgiveness, the remittal
from above breathes a pitiful hot breath and reboils the ground
beneath the stranger. his sweltering pedestals, his
sliced socks from unattended nails and travel.
the stranger watched thousands of
familiar faces run recurrent
to his path towards the haunt. the briefcase opens and
alcoholic milk spills out. one of the ghosts was curious.
what the stranger says comes with mid-word pauses,
in procatalepsis. the rooftop accompaniment wonders
if they should invite the stranger up, yet there is
a tacit divide, as if some news had traveled like an aerosol vector, airborne transmission.
the stranger has counted on his hands a number of times.
you can’t have a gunshow or bedside manner with loved ones.
ghosts counting their ownly two hands,
loved one in their eyes.
mistakes need to die, like evolving into self consciousness,
like the budge,
like feeling florally-compelled while alive.
as far as high stakes go, the distance has already been covered.
ruth rained. as the stranger felt a new soak,
there were familiar faces dancing in the field where they had run.
a sopping they would return with to make him feel innocently vulnerable about.
another ghost opens the briefcase and pulls out self
loathing letters written by contemporary florists.
they were out of place, but well intended.
the stranger read them conclusively and waited for an instinctual rebellion to run home,
go to work the next day.
my head is being pulled apart behind me.