take five

You say there's ghosts hovering at my doorway,
your mind mirrored out across the floorboards.
You're imagining them, I say; you
insist.

So I confess
I've heard the ghosts before, and
not just in this house ...
You confess the apparition came from
elsewhere
-- around three hours ago,
to be precise,
in the shape of flattened lego --
and, without me,
for which I'm a little resentful.

Like the ghosts, you seem to
have been
pulled through the walls, defying what's
perceived as possible, suddenly
porch to
Parnell to
Parkfield
the ultimate nomadic
pirate without penance,
the living ghost of amphibia

... after a brief lucid hiatus, tradition follows:
barefoot adventure for hash browns and juice,
talking shit about
getting shit and
doing shit but not actually
really
getting or doing
anything

the ghosts are us.
We are hollow with reckless safety,
invisible to next door's gentrified suburbs,
in semi-perpetual existence
transparent,
indifferent.