Ghost, you call me. Not the ghost, but
Ghost, making that my proper name, not (of course)
my Christian name, but the older kind: the one
that means something and tells something about you
that remains true. There’s nothing new
about me being a ghost, only that I’m called
by that name now, and I’m finally comfortable with it.

Back when I was just a guy, long before I leaped off
that bridge to get here, I used to daydream about flying
and walking through walls. I used to wish for the power
to blow through a window so everyone knows you’re there
and you don’t even have to show up.
I never had impact, and didn’t want risk,
so my fantasy became impact without risk: that would be the life, I thought.
A good joke: I’ve got the life I wanted, now that I don’t have a life.

I used to cringe when they told scary stories at camp.
I remember that later I laughed at horror films, pretending bravery.
Once you’re here, you find it’s nothing like those things. It’s all so – routine.
You show up at regular times, whistle a little in a dark hallway,
provide a moment of clarity to someone who’s used to being safe and warm.
You become a lesson no one believes in until it’s learned.

But it’s not all bad.
It’s a beautiful world when you can’t really feel it.
It takes your breath away sometimes to see the way it moves.
I spend years just standing in front of the strangest things:
not sunsets, not rainbows, but garbage trucks and fires
and drive-by victims. It’s all so beautiful, the way
disposal has become an art form. (It was my art, after all.)

So, Ghost is what you call me, and I’ll take it, the way
I always took it: with a bowed head. Before, I would always
come when called because I had no place to be
other than the place I was called to. Nothing’s really changed:
I blow through, bother you, maybe I’ll be remembered in your children’s stories.
Maybe we’ll see each other one night on the landing, where
you might call me Ghost,
or you might call me imaginary.
No matter.
I’ve always answered to either one.

I’m having a bit of a crisis — just a dip after a bit of hypomania — my therapy appointment last night made me think about stuff I don’t like to consider.

I do not like to admit how much I miss certain things, certain people.

I am not complete. Not in that stupid ass Jerry McGuire way; more like there’s something missing that ought to be there — a hand hold for people to get a grip on. I’ve chipped them all off, I think.

I feel my age. I’m aging away from the people around me. I am afraid of looking ridiculous. I am afraid of that.

I snap too easily, say dumb things, can’t think, can’t concentrate. I haven’t written a poem longer than twenty lines or so in months — not because they aren’t there to be written, but because I can’t focus long enough to write them.

I’m afraid of not being a poet anymore.

I am failing at things I should do easily, and I don’t know how to get back to wwhere I was. I don’t even know if I should or can, but I know I don’t like it here.

Is this all I’ve got to look forward to? Because I’m scared of that, too.

I’m living scared. I’m never scared. I’m always scared.

This is not good.

(NOTE: please don’t call. I’m not going to talk about it after this. I needed to give it away because I needed to look at it on the screen and know I’d admitted it in public — I’m scared of where I am right now, not in a suicidal way, but in terms of how I’m changing.

Thank you for reading this.

Repeat: I’m not going to speak of it again. Please, do not call me.)

First change: the title.

WELCOME ABOARD

Continue reading

I’ll look at this again in the AM. Feedback?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Career Advice

Welcome aboard.

First, orientation:
this place is big, a brick
house with no funk.

Next, code of conduct:
You would not believe how easy it is
to not speak to anyone here — just let them talk
and they’ll barely notice you.

Stay one step ahead of the boss in terms
of your computer savvy
and you can play God
indefinitely.

Lunchtime: try a salad and an antipsychotic
chased with pure spring water. Save a
Diet Coke for later, when you will need
the caffeine to help scrape together a little attention.

The bar across from this building is another world.
You will need a special suit to breathe in its atmosphere.
The creatures there use camouflage and mimicry to stay alive.

The grim men you see haunting the conference rooms
after marketing meetings and training classes
live on leftover brownies and stalled ambitions.
They own the sports cars at the fringes of the parking lot.
In other places, they would call them ghosts.
Do not let them touch you.
No one you work for will ever return your love,
even if they say that they do.
Do not allow yourself to pretend they will,
even for a second. They will only know you’re leaving
when you turn in your badge,
but if you work here long enough,
you won’t need the badge at all,
because everyone will know you.

Everyone already does know you, in fact;
we seem to remember you,
as if you’d worked here before,
so we already know everything we need to know
about you.