It’s tightening the air molecules today.
Things get frozen in my beard.
Drunk friends tell me things about the Indian wars, we all miss the Indians
we say, maybe we are the Indians, we certainly are not kings.
We drink up high, we drink down low,
we see how many stories about ancient aliens
we can remember in street lamps reflecting off the snow.
These are our days now, some different, most aligned,
like blown out stars
that have long since died.
Time is now, but yesterday as well,
I’m alive today like I was in the future at the toll of the bell.
Dancing and dancing the lights made out of memories
flicker and fade and reflect back into a million new moves
choreographs, cartographic, and smiling glow-in-the-dark skulls
if you look at the picture right
while you push your things higher into the attic
because there is a room up there, with a little keyhole,
that you’ve never seen before but there is neon swelling
under the crack and I can hear bare feet,
I can smell butterscotch, maybe cloves, maybe nutmeg
dancing and dancing the nights made out of hieroglyphics in spray paint.
These are my stories, simply ghosts I haven’t caught yet.