I died on that hill…
“Our body is not in space like things; it inhabits or haunts space.”
— Sara Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology
as long as
it holds me here
in its thicket. Smoke
is not proof. It dissipates
like any event. The burning
grass killed all those creatures
who lived within it. As flame is not
the fire, but essence within it: I am
trapped in this briar—punctured
with sin. A deliverance in red,
crackles in their terrible lit
torches, their hot agony.
Consumed, I raised
up this hill
GhostBro Investigates at Town Hall
(based on a local YouTube documentary)
As a clairvoyant he feels like he sees men,
all men, occupying the courtroom seats.
Hot spots in the aged attic where he appeals
to dust motes as ghosts or angels. Greeting
them with a reverence reserved for none of us
living. Spirits gather in their geometrical points,
they mingle near the angular joints, the energy
of underbed clustering allows their movement
and momentum. So he says. Paranormal elevators
act as special vessels for astral ascent. They collect
behind windows and eyelids, inside the fevered minds
of men. Notice the aura of spirit orbs, not possibly
lens flare: it must be Death’s dark glint there.
A seance grasps at mortality: hear us!
As the hunter ensures his eternal existence
by creating spectral company in the afterlife
as insurance against oblivion. Conversations
with the dead ensure real friends beyond the grave
who will, undead, be just like him. So greet cautiously,
but with kindness, that unaccounted for knocking
at your front door. It may be the ghost of a man, feeling
for the knob with transparent hands, hoping to be let in.
In my new devil costume, the lipstick is blood
but as a sweet-toothed boy
I bit into each apple, hoping
to become a razor blade.