Ghazal for the AmericanI live on an island, eighteen hours into your future and upside-down.This gives me special powers. Ie., I can drink vodka upside-down.Warning: heavy drinking may cause phantoms. Cinematic ones.In bold American sports cars, burning on highways upside-down.That's how the dead roll. Like dice, or green numbers. Like cats.Their logic is internal, peculiar. It only appears to be upside-down.Like a cat, I observe phantoms. I am, at times, caught staring.In ceiling-corners, the ghosts of spiders dandle upside-down.But that's how I roll. Like cars on highways. Empty bottles. Cats.Eighteen shots makes you a ghost. It turns me upside-down.I am oft-capsized. Eighteen hours into your future, I am also drunk.The cat, observing, finds that I no longer have an upside nor a down..
WitchesWitchesPerhaps you thought we were gonewhen the puddles of fat and ash congealed,and our stink unstuck from the backof your throat. When you exhaleinto the face of your wife, does she smell us?Lately at night, familiar as cats,we've taken to creeping into your room,reeking of bonfires, empty-headedpumpkins, poppets of wormwood and rue. In your sleep, you eat our bodiesand brag come morning, you dare notpass a hedge for fear of whispersnor linger where three roads meet.We are slowly collecting your fluids,your fallen hair; we hide in your sockslike foxtail, we diffuse our dustinto all your meals. Soon we'll leachas salt from your skin, fly like spittleout of your gaping mouth. We are the hookand the bait. We are always to blame..