Hey hungry ghost
I see you over there
turning pupils into playthings.
That’s right, I’m talking to you,
anorexic eyes
surfing
like a hotdog
with time-killing, oh-why-not-ness
this word-sick wave
of words.
Listen up:
There’s a reason
you’ve read this far:
A recurring
nearly imperceptible nightmare
you secretly hope
these verses
might entertain you
away from
is begging for the relief
of being named.
And so, hungry ghost,
I will oblige:
A gang of hooded archetypes
is pinning you
naked
against an icy dumpster.
Opinion
is getting raped
by wonder,
and “prayer” –
that thing you call,
“the psychological equivalent
of biting your fingernails” –
might not be
such a bad idea
right now.
