The Ghost And The Machine

I googled "ghosts" last night, there were 39,300,000 results. Emily was sitting beside me, she laughed herself silly at that. I've been showing the modern world to her a bit at a time. The internet took some explaining, when she died in 1982 computers were still pretty rare. I showed her how to use the mouse and the keyboard and let her look at the search results.

"God, Jim, what are people so afraid of?" she asked me. "Damned if I know, honey.They only want to believe in the things they can see and touch and hold in their hands." She laughed at that. "Well, you can see me, right?" "Yes." "And you can for sure touch me, right?" "Oh yeah!" "And I totally love it when you hold me, Jim, do you love it too?" "Do you have to ask?" 

 I'd probably say roflmao, but you wouldn't know what that meant, would you? So I'll just say, "Urs4ever!" Love ya baby!

 

Valentine's Day, A Long Time Ago

Remember that sand bar on the edge of Galveston Bay? Our feet touching under the warm salt water, the hems of our jeans dripping, passing the bottle of bourbon back and forth while the Texas sunset gleamed in your eyes? You took off that silly purple felt hat and stuck it on my head and started laughing, and I couldn't help kissing you.

The oil tankers were lined up along the horizon, gliding into the harbor as the sun set, and you asked me what the different lights on the ships meant. And I told you how the running lights worked, and the masthead lights, and how it feels to climb a swaying mainmast while the first stars are waking up. And you started to sing "Dock Of The Bay" so softly, almost a whisper, while the Texas sun sank into the sea. And I sang harmony, it was the first time we ever sang together, and I was even more scared than I was the first time you kissed me.

Just Another Friday Night

Watching the sand pile up where the river used to flow, watching the sand fill the channel til the water's gone underground. You're only the ghost of a river now, and the lines in the sand are the ghost of the current that used to boil over the rocks. You're just a zen garden now, sleeping in the sun.

And I'm lying here on a bed made of sunlight and flat stones, trying to remember the last late night that I didn't want to cry.

Watching the sun going down through the trees, watching the light shine like burning roses on the libraries and the grave stones. Seems like everybody I ever cared about is either dead or crazy, or both.

And I'm lying here on a bed made of summer moonlight and gravel, trying to remember the last late night that I didn't want to cry.

So Glad You Were Here!

I just sent you home in a car service, and now it's so quiet in here. Tonight was the absolute best Super Bowl ever and I know because I've seen all forty two of them, but most of them happened before you were born. But hey, you had a great time tonight, didn't you?

I remember the night I met you, at a Meat Loaf concert last summer. You were wearing a black lace victorian grave dress, torn fishnets, black lipstick and blood red eye shadow and I was hooked the minute I saw you. We had a late dinner at my favorite place on Eighth Avenue and walked the steaming canyons hand in hand under the midsummer moon.

And early in the morning I sent you home in a car service, and it was so quiet in here.

I almost didn't recognize you when you showed up tonight, in jeans and ugh boots and a Giants jersey. No makeup and your black hair in a pure and simple ponytail. God, you were adorable! We sat on my bed eating the world's most eclectic Super Bowl dinner: potato chips and guacamole, followed by Hunan dumplings and grape leaves, with fresh bananas and prosecco wine for dessert. I'm so glad you're a veggie person too!

At half time you sang along with all the Tom Petty songs, which cracked me up since most of them were written when you were almost an infant. And I almost fell off the bed laughing at your imitation of the idiot tv announcers trying to sound like they had a clue about anything. And that last five minutes, when everything was on a seesaw and Eli escaped what had to be a sack and threw the impossible touchdown pass you yelled even louder than I did, and that last thirty five seconds, I think your nails actually drew blood from my palm!

We watched the trophy presentation and listened to the interviews, and now I've sent you home in a car service, and it's so quiet in here....wish you could have stayed the night!

 

The End Of January

Emily, if you'd just tell me where you left your body I'd go leave mine there to keep it company. I wouldn't need it anymore and we could leave them in some sunny place, half buried in warm sand, arms around each other under the afternoon sun. In a few centuries they'd be just a pile of dust feeding the desert roses and waiting for the springtime rain.

Then we could start our real life!

January

Christmas tree corpses stacked in the streets like plague victims. Bring out your dead! Rooms looking bare and empty where the strings of lights shone. The gifts all put to use or put away, the bright colored paper all gone now. 

Just the grey light of winter, and a pearl colored sky that's thinking about snow.

Happy Birthday, Joan Of Arc

(Joan Of Arc was born on January 6, 1412, in Domremy, France)

Everyone remembers the way you died, Joan, the smoke and the screaming and crowds laughing and jeering while your soul rose to heaven on clouds of black cinders. Everyone saw the weasly priest holding the crucifix before your face as the hay bales caught and the flames rose, telling you to pray to Jesus for forgiveness. He was the one who should ask forgiveness, he and all the monsters who crush human hearts and pick human wallets while claiming to know the will of God.

It's too bad nobody remembers that today is your birthday, Joan. They don't remember the little baby being carried into the stone chapel at Domremy on a frosty January morning to be christened. They never saw you at three years old, playing in the meadow in your linen smock, picking daisies and putting them in your hair. They didn't notice you at twelve, looking at your reflection in the mill pond and wondering what the son of the miller saw when he looked at you. I hope his heart skipped a beat when he saw you, and that years later, when he was an old man sitting in the sun outside his mill, he remembered the first love of his life.