Ghost Days


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It happened again.
At least it seems that way.


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I woke up before the clock.

It used to be a cock.
I’m sure of that.
A simple letter,
nothing but a stroke of my pen.


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Now it’s a clock
with virtual hands
projected on my cell phone;
no longer a cell
surrounding me and my despair.


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No longer the cold fear, piss-smelling impotence
of being forever trapped for something I didn’t do...     

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or I did but only seemingly
because
those things just happen all by themselves

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and trap you
right there
in the moment
and you can only
wash your hands

moving and

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GhostDays11.jpg (30925 bytes) pulling and
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breaking

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and you can’t even remember where you are or how you got there.

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But every time the cock sings it startles you back...

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into a sweaty face
trapped in a torturous cell
to a life of prison
and despair,

and it’s just then when something begins to

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break away

and sense a space
away from the tormentous rigidity of my fate.

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Right then,

right at the moment of freedom

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the clock on the cell phone becomes visible

and I don’t recognize where I am

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—again—

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and get up

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and swear this time I’ll vacuum and clean and read

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and create

and eat well

as I put the sweat smelling clothes from last week

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and drive again to work

and try to borrow money
to take my daughter to the movies

just in case she decides to like me again one day.


            


Send any comments, suggestions or questions to jc@viasinistrae.com

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