Ghostrain

The Family. friendly fire. so and so hearts so and so,

graffiti on the inside of the Tetanus Express. 

the T.E is situated in a soft, dead, bright field. 

a witch's bad hairday (underbrush) eavesdrops over the empty windows, 

spying on a spiderweb of broken glass. one million MEs. 

dry, dead skin peels away from the rusty bones of the T.E 

revealing various layers of it was but not anymore. 

my anachronistic sister sips sam adams on the corpse of a chair in the 

dining car. she pulls her leather tighter against her 

Monroe chest, practices breaking bottles, cringing and giggling. 

"you're a vision." she says. 

there's someone coming. a couple, all smiles and tee shirts.

they are uninvited cast, intruders in an infinite film about sisters, 

so we chuck our butts, grip the rail and jump out

of the train (as if it were moving) making a beeline to the clunk-mobile, 

peeling out like Thelma and Louise. 

The Good Girl

by the age of ten she had a PHD in neurofire and ten thousand Valentine cards she folded into paper cranes that flew over the Nile, moving Moses through the reeds. 

Envelope

sometimes poems come already written

translated and translated again 

leaving only the language of 

God I don't write them. 

not always but sometimes they come in  floating 

envelopes in dreams unfolding into words

that were sanskrit, for me and about 

ecstasy and sometimes you.

when the most ancient flashlight I know of drifted across 

my linens this morning I remembered this phrase:   

I have hands on my clock for you.