I Am a Ghost
I don’t know if it’s morning or night, yet,
but they’re already in the hall, door pried
off hinges, lights painting the walls.
Their little radio machine beeps. Sometimes,
I like to make it surge like a Theremin.
I saw one at a Sonic Youth show. They
get really excited when I do that, talking
in their little headsets. Their voices are
the mutters of worms, chewing a corpse.
They wave the machine around. They have
a machine that looks for cold spots.
They’re very sure of what they’ll find,
even though they never find it. Always
when I’m trying to read, to watch TV
on the radio waves. I thought this was
supposed to be my time of peace. Not kids
looking for proof they haven’t wasted
it all in vain, that there will be another
chance, floating in the dark, messing with
teenagers and Travel Channel Documentarians.
It’s Not About Getting Better. It’s About Getting Through
I’m pulling the creek over my head
and lying in its bed. I’m selling
these arms for feathers and settling
above your desk. Don’t worry;
I won’t miss any deadlines that matter.
I just need to lie down for a little
while and listen to the waves play.
Some things will never be all right.
Light burns fingertips. It doesn’t mean
they help you see. It’s the heart attack
before you land that never comes.
It’s the voice that doesn’t lead to fists.
I’m not saying it’s your fault. It is,
but I’m not saying it because you don’t
deserve to hear. I just need
to make it better for a little while
so I can get some things done.
I have so much left to do before
I can settle in.
Marcel said, “Can they fly?”
A trashcan lined with rage.
No one can trust their neighbors
to water the plants anymore.
A dog whistle. A barking head.
I’m talking about Daylight Savings Time
by years instead of hours.
Should I get stabbed in the back or watch
my daughter shot. Should I pretend
there’s anything to do but press on?
Let’s all post the richest outrage
on social media. You’ve got jokes. Listen:
No one wants to hear that shit.
I’m trying to hide behind the curtain
but my gut sticks out.
Aside from being the dumbest asses
in captivity, everyone is so fucking
smart. I’m too safe to be
this tired. Imagine. It’s my
fault. No, it’s their fault. Their
parents. Their school boards.
It’s everything just to be right now.
New Year
A branch rotting in a ditch.
A squirrel fallen from a tree.
I’m so dead, I’m still in the phone book.
I’m having the botflies over for tea.
When you live for one thing, it’s hard
to find someone to hang out with
who doesn’t spend the hour watching the clock.
I stayed up till 8 and watched fireworks on my phone.
I dreamed about nothing and liked it.
Life is like traffic on 95.
All rush then adding up numbers from license plates.
The stickers are so rarely clever.
If you neglect your house long enough,
your kids will have to clean it.
Unless you don’t have kids. Then, you’re screwed.
Over Yonder
There’s a river that runs through
a faraway place, lined with a kind
of tree that resembles something
familiar but none of us can place.
Several species of fish
that look just like other kinds
of fish, but slightly different
in not very important ways, swim,
wide-eyed as though just plopped out
into this world. People stand on the shore,
mostly alone, some in pairs, casting
their lines into the silver flow. They
lie about their catch, but in different
ways than we do. They have different
models of beat-up trucks and run-down
cars parked haphazardly on the odd shore.
Birds that don’t appear in any books
we’ve seen flap lazily overhead, sometimes
dropping to the water, fence post,
a tree. The people who live in this
strange place, eat their strange brands
of pre-packaged food, wear their
strange jeans and tee-shirts, they think
this place is as boring as ours. They
look at pictures of us, or out the window
as they speed by, wondering if we know
how unusual it is to be sad inside in
a slightly different way, to toss in strange
sheets, wishing our dumb plans had gone
a different way.
CL Bledsoe - Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than thirty books, including the poetry collections Riceland, The Bottle Episode, and his newest, Having a Baby to Save a Marriage, as well as his latest novels If You Love Me, You’ll Kill Eric Pelkey and The Devil and Ricky Dan. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his kid.
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