Conversation With a Ghost
‘Twas a fog enveloped evening on the California coast,
That I had my first and only conversation with a ghost.
The work day had ended, and as I walked in the door,
I saw a translucent man, settled quaintly on my floor.
Though my courage disappeared, my manners sure had not;
“Good eve, sir,” I stammered, “My, what clear skin you’ve got.”
“Why thank you,” he answered, in a tone warm and bold,
“I’d shake your hand, but I have such a terrible cold.”
“No matter,” I replied, “May I fetch you some tea?”
“No, thank you, I just want to talk,” blatantly, said he.
And so we talked through the night, ‘bout pain and remorse,
And love and marriage and family, and heartbreak and divorce.
And when the conversation turned to death, his eyes grew sad,
Especially when I asked what kind of death he’d had.
“One far too soon,” he said, and the ghost began to cry,
“You know too much, I must go now, it’s time to say goodbye.”
Upon this word, he vanished, like the sun over the sea,
But only then I realized he looked an awful lot like me
Forbidden
‘Twas the quietest child, with the callowest eyes,
Who lost touch with the earth, and fell through the skies.
He walked to his grave with pins in his heel,
Coughing up death for the devil’s hard deal.
With a book in which love was so clearly defined,
Why couldn’t his heart agree with his mind?
From benevolence trickled a minimal tune,
On the crest of this somber afternoon.
In his shroud of iniquity, he was heard to have said,
“My life is a lie, I am better off dead.”
Betwixt heartbreak and loathing and abhorrent self-doubt,
His spine hit the pave, and the lights went out.
Hit-Man
Vengeance in the evening leaves a sorely crimson wake,
A dagger through the collar is a promise I can’t make.
A lack of passion pillows both my conscience and my crime,
But the secrets in my pockets make these good deeds worth my time.
I’ll reassure my clients, every wicked, nameless face,
That there isn’t any other with my nimble skill and grace.
You say my job is tactless, you say I have no taste;
But it’s all you fools with enemies that ought to be disgraced.
Lady
Tighten your corset, darling,
Scarlet your lips.
Delicate steps, darling,
Sway your hips.
Pile up your hair,
Powder up your cheeks.
Blink and swoon, but never swear,
For a lady rarely speaks.
