Don’t follow lightly.
Ghosts have no choice,
But, you — that’s another story.
Last night’s four lines, had they been poetry and
Not the dust that crossed the blood-brain barrier
And continues to break you down neuron by neuron
Ensuring that you flicker out of now and into nowhere,
Stuttering as you earnestly try to describe either
Pain or — poverty — pa kua or — pachisi —
Those lines — yes, really — could’ve been beautiful.
I understand that you prefer to live in your mind,
That you like that world better than this we share,
I understand that, while you’re playing Houdini,
Somehow someday you’ll conjure a fulfilled man.
But it doesn’t matter who built the road
Be it Michael or the Devil.
Hop off. Veer elsewhere
You don’t have to tread it.
It’s dust, you don’t have to sniff . . .
And certainly don’t peddle it.
Unsatisfied feet can tramp others
Many other roads besides this . . .
Roads of their own making.