CASPER
THE FRIENDLY GHOST
i.
Mistletoe, a city of snapshots taped to
plaster, blue bottles and a fire's
fitful sparks the only glimmers
of warmth in your new lodgings.
For you, this season without wreaths,
I would manhandle a city, conjure
a drizzle, then soften it to snow,
paint lampposts deep reds and greens
and so install around your room some
snatches of the festive. But starting
and ending here, these wishes are slipshod:
they never seem to settle on a picture that
touches you at all. Storms, ramshackle
gifts fly freely, but the setting's
the same: you dine upon sausage and frost.
ii.
The violent thrum of error,
the catcalls of the wronged, the small
crimes of a life, and the liquid horror
of crimes to come—all
this gushes and spurts inside
me even in sleep, issuing from a source
I cannot stop anymore. But now, astride
a white-winged, metal horse,
you float above the sea, the dream
takes shape and lets you loom large ... until a cruel moon
spotlights the beast's false joints, and screams
blast it to shreds, and you come crashing down
into the red-hot waves. Even in sleep
I cannot save you from the carnal deep.
iii.
Oh, go when you must, but
do not go for long! The place
my thoughts built lingers, but its spirit
is sick; every day new chinks
show on its surface, and mad mouths
surround it, hell-bent on seeing it
crumble. Throw grub at them
as they shriek to keep them happy, distract
them with song, and let this room
continue, this place where a heathen's only
higher hope is realized, where chaos
stays chained, and where your huge,
luminous shadow keeps me agog.
Mistletoe, a city of snapshots taped to
plaster, blue bottles and a fire's
fitful sparks the only glimmers
of warmth in your new lodgings.
For you, this season without wreaths,
I would manhandle a city, conjure
a drizzle, then soften it to snow,
paint lampposts deep reds and greens
and so install around your room some
snatches of the festive. But starting
and ending here, these wishes are slipshod:
they never seem to settle on a picture that
touches you at all. Storms, ramshackle
gifts fly freely, but the setting's
the same: you dine upon sausage and frost.
ii.
The violent thrum of error,
the catcalls of the wronged, the small
crimes of a life, and the liquid horror
of crimes to come—all
this gushes and spurts inside
me even in sleep, issuing from a source
I cannot stop anymore. But now, astride
a white-winged, metal horse,
you float above the sea, the dream
takes shape and lets you loom large ... until a cruel moon
spotlights the beast's false joints, and screams
blast it to shreds, and you come crashing down
into the red-hot waves. Even in sleep
I cannot save you from the carnal deep.
iii.
Oh, go when you must, but
do not go for long! The place
my thoughts built lingers, but its spirit
is sick; every day new chinks
show on its surface, and mad mouths
surround it, hell-bent on seeing it
crumble. Throw grub at them
as they shriek to keep them happy, distract
them with song, and let this room
continue, this place where a heathen's only
higher hope is realized, where chaos
stays chained, and where your huge,
luminous shadow keeps me agog.