It’s eschatology kegger night
and some guy in an Abort the Pope tee shirt 
says the gum left behind when a bandaid’s
ripped off holds the cosmos together
but he’s got one of those leaks
you can only diagnosis by plunging
the whole shebang into a bucket and squeezing.
Then a guy with a patch in his head
says I’ve been repeating myself since ’73
when my first injuries were my finest
although they healed. What’s the worst
that can happen? Jail, terrible pain followed
by death? Been there, seen the demonstration
where the objectors get smashed and drug out,
unconscious from the struggle
but some just stroll through the smoke
to meet a grade school teacher so go figure.
Now here’s a suspect with a feather in her chest
to say the self is a visitation
but when questioned further
says even noodles are a visitation.
Been gone so long slurp the lyrics.
For a ghost, it’s always the hour
when you can see the landscapes underpainting
done with a pallet knife, waxy, then
the ephemera blotted in and the citoyens
congregate to start the calendar over.
Now that my ghost’s life’s underway,
everyone’s trying to contact me
as if I know who’s out, who’s in,
as if I’ve got a clue about the yen.
Last numb of March wearing off
like novocain in the brambles
by the perpetual construction site
where the morning crew demolishes
what the night shift’s built.
Someone’s unplugged the river.
Someone’s broken a wheel off the sky,
bells jittering in the sewer system.
How different from the cops who busted me
flashing their orthodontia
was the morning sergeant of sheep
when he let me out of my cell,
gave back my belt and key,
everything else kept as evidence
as if anyone needs convincing.
I’d never been that happy.
Not swimming in the mouth of my lover,
not spitting on the king.