Birthing Ghosts

Riding shotgun like I was made to do,
Clinging to my slippery reasoning like a wet sidecar,
I’ve got jazz hanging in my ears,
so I pretend not to notice
yesterday slumped in the back seat,
whispering the same dirty jokes over and over,
while tomorrow plays peekaboo behind the trees
that bow their weary heads to brush away
the memories I keep dropping
along this twisted, twisted road I ride

Heat lightening in the distance reveals the hidden sky
and now all the world can see
that my head is a dirty-dog whore house –
just some broken ward full
of dying and neglected thoughts
And those bad, bad intentions standing at the windows waving so sweetly
seemingly oblivious to my half-hearted rejections
Oh, I know they’re gonna linger to the very end of all that is me
The wind keeps trying to steal my breath
but I have ghosts to birth,
spilling plump, red litanies and nursing hungry stories
of the wanton and the woeful
so I can’t give up that breath just yet
And I’m holding onto the night like the night is the only thing holding onto me.

But this ride always ends the same
with the gray light catching me when night loses his grip
and I’ll fall into the cool morning
where sleep will fill me with those racing words,
moving pictures and maybe the impossible blues of a van Gogh world
where everything,
EVERYTHING
finally makes sense to me

And while I’m splashing through the blue puddles of Vincent’s dizzy swirls
death slips from the shadows and sits upon my chest
tasting my dreams and riding the waves of my sleep

Smiling, he waits for me
tangling my hair around his stiff fingers
as he patiently counts the hours
until the night comes again,
when I’ll be riding shotgun
just like I was made to do.

© 2017 https://birthingghosts.wordpress.com/

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