The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
we fill up the room
like eggs coming to a boil
in a stainless steel pot
jostling one another
breaking our skins
escaping into
salty water
hardening into thin ribbons
the sulfur smell
that is us
the bits of calcified shell
that are us
we float in salty water
we bounce and break
our centers harden
little suns
gone still
you circle back
in this rain
retrace your steps to search for
that piece of yourself
you dropped
on the sidewalk?
in the gutter?
that thing you dropped
it is smaller than a snowflake
fragile as bones
woven of glass strands
and now
you say
i must go with you
to help you find it
i will bring a light
and hope my failing eyes
offer some assistance
the soul is egg-shaped
tethered to the earth
by seven cords
and seven cords ascend into
the heavens
the research isn’t complete
do those cords simply wrap around
and meet one another
where the universe ends
or are up and down
actual directions
if the connections are cut above
or if they wither
those below thicken
the soul becomes dense
and sluggish
those with this condition may
live a full life
but they are dead though they breathe
if the cords below are severed
death is immediate
but the soul will not be
strong enough to ascend
and will crack, leak, dissolve
the mystery then
how do the cords become
thin as a single strand
of spider silk
until they disappear in harmony
taking the egg with it
the ghosts don’t have shapes, you said
it’s plain to me because the idea of a
soul is outdated, as outdated as the
idea of the homunculus the little mad
man behind the curtain telling you to
eat cookies and scratch your ass in
public
i point out that i never equated a ghost
with a human soul merely that there
were such things as ghosts and they
most definitely have shapes if not
actual substance
if a ghost is not a soul, then what is it
you ask, pressing me further on the subject
i am about to answer when the light changes
in the room and you fade out where a
beam of sunlight illuminates where you
used to sit on the sofa
we saw no angels only
the aftermath of their
swords cutting the air
orange sunset through
clouds of distant smoke
and somewhere a single
dog barking
__________i hope someone
threw that loud bastard
a bone to calm him down
as for the angels–well
they can carve up heaven
as they see fit
there aren’t enough
actual souls down here
to complain about it
when i was a kid i could buy
at the magic shop
or sometimes the drug store
magic smoke
dab between my thumb and forefinger
press together and spread apart
long strands would magically form
filaments
shiny waving gossamer
a gauzy arc between fingertips
a good trick
if you had dexterity enough
you made smoke appear from your hands
i found later
when i got into building models
that airplane glue
which smelled so good
and left me light-headed
did the same thing
the human soul stretches out
between us too
incredibly thin and almost
invisible but not quite
strongest when we are pressed together
thinner but still strong
still connecting
when we are apart
these shoes hurt my feet
though there was little walking
still it seems too much distance
had been covered in too little time
not to say that things were rushed
or that the scenery went by
unappreciated
but the ache is there
starting in the arches and
aching in the ball joints
all the way across the bottom
and they throb when i take a moment
to sit and reflect
and my soul throbs too
not a heartbeat so much
as the ticking of a clock
and you can’t lay blame on the shoes
