GHOST WHISPERS

Blame it on ephemera.

Or the etymology of the word sincere,

that is flawed to the core.

(Look it up, you’ll see what I mean.)

Blame it, - whatever it is for you -

on any damn thing you want.

But put the blame somewhere.

Get it out of you.

Cough it up like a fur ball.

Send it hurling into a spittoon

with a clang! and a splat!

Or is it splat! first then clang!?

Anyway...

Once you have gotten blame out

and are rid of it

and feel you can breathe a little easier,

then let’s everybody stop,

just for a second,

and all at once and together,

have a sort of Jack LaLanne moment.

Let’s touch our tongues to our fingertips,

wet our ‘prints and turn to the page

that says what the fuck!

Have I got your attention?

Hope so!

I just want us to be together,

that’s all.

Finally arrive!

Be

in unison,

and on the same page,

so to speak,

with or without the word fuck,

for once,

and know

we are saying something

of substance

to each other,

that holds our attention

like a balloon parlayed between strangers.

Yes, I’m talking to you.

I am talking to me. I am talking to all of us.

The us that craves to know another

with as few words as possible.

Once we have that scaffolding in place

then maybe we can

ride catastrophe like a calliope

into a Dust Bowl town

braying: The circus is here!.

Or ride calamity like a camel into an oasis

to set-up a Kool-Aid stand.

And once we’ve done that,

then perhaps we can turn pessimism over

and burp it like a new born,

so the bubble rises up

like resilience

from the belly’s Gerber gassy soup.

Trust me!

I won’t, along the way,

try to sell you a glacier

or swindle you into

buying the Northern Lights.

You can’t be sold.

I know that.

But if we can’t drink from the same glass

let’s at least agree to swim in the same lake,

and try to taste the salt the fable says is there.

Or shuttle the chickens, goats, pigs

and cows from the house,

so we can hear the quite the children make.

Or let’s let our minds tinker 

with translations or crossword puzzles 

to distract our hearts from their beehives

and our emotions from their anvils.

(Was that too heavy-handed?)

Whatever we do…let’s not blink.

We don’t want to miss a moment of our lives.

And if you throw your voice, I’ll throw mine.

And together we’ll create a new ventriloquism,

extemporaneously speaking, that is.

A new kind of musing.

Like whispers between ghosts.

But let’s not get too clever.

Otherwise we’ll miss what each other is saying,

and then we’ll have to hit the rewind button

and watch the tape go too far backwards,

beyond where it was meant to go.