suckerpunch IV

The bullets that riddled the body have left us separate but equal. The radio plays companion pieces to go with a symphony of heartache that no one else has ever heard. I try to steady myself. Ready myself to speak my mind, no matter what the ghosts I clutch in my hand have to say about the reality that haunts them, this and every other night. And my thoughts are not well. Self involved--absorbed--playful in their ingenuity--realistic in their dimension. There goes the change and it rains again. Long ago, I gave up my fortune for revelations.

Does your car make noises of salvation when passing through small towns? I guess I need to take to someone without having to make a phone call. The ballads swirling in my mind, remind me of another day when it was horses in the streets and everything felt lukewarm and curiosity didn't exist because God hadn't yet invented it. And dreams made people happy and no one knew the word sorry but perfectionists and the shadow players.

Up hills we walked searching for shame because it seemed silly to whip ourselves without it. This is how it was and would still be if people didn't stop wasting their lives on romantic notions and apostrophes. So doubt me not! The quotations marks have no hold on Tom Foolery or the clever pet names he has for friends, lovers, and heretics.

There is a cold front moving in and life seems to stop without a thought. Only a tie-in, a thread in nightmares plot for the sake of a TV movie. And the song of freedom is stuck in the throat of the masses.

(taken from Love Is A Ghost Thing. Published by Publish America.)