a ghost zoo

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[dorianedgar]

Tell Me

what you've been wanting to say.

[liestoldinheavenaboutbabies]

“There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself – not just sometimes, but always.

When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he were somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he’d bothered. Nothing really interested him – least of all the things that should have.”

-Norton Juster, “The Phantom Tollbooth”

[dorianedgar]

10hr. Delay in Dewey Square

7:37 a.m. time to kill death gripping axe handle pen jotting filth in the center of train station south station dewey square, choking but mocking purposefully entertaining weary brain—another flood vermin seep through glass doors scattering like skunks bearing stench, the walls and hallways stink of urine, they reek rushing to nothing. by the looks of this flock of suits and leggings—business junkies. but what of it? proud of what: nothingness. “their money bought them golden cufflinks. but still their brains full of boring.” no one heard that no one said that. mocking purposefully entertaining weary brain—another flood of vermin in dewey square and there is some lonely stranger sitting, jotting in the center south station, watching: they are all in a rush for nothing— “you are all running nowhere.” i said.

“most of you have closed ears, heads down, unaware of the motions nothing matters so much as to what is in your hands.”

click.

7:51 a.m. … i hardly killed death. 3&1/2 hours to go … out of hundreds of thousands of busy feet only one man stopped to question the lady: she worked in dewey square as a “customer assistant” wait …wait a minute, commuters considered customers? then again, it makes sense after considering— how hollow.

empty headed wandering fat pigeons pale faces in yellow palms, personal, self-centered, tiny worlds: click that click this click it press down, swipe—a child kicks and cries and begs: “mommy. please i want this. please ugh mommy but please.” picture this, Raskolnikov and Camus’ Stranger emerging from the beaten trampled worn tiled floor … imagine, what would they do with this mess?

something peculiar in these uncertain sounds mingling arguments.

i sat there aware that no one noticed—not even the thirty yard tall purple Monster alone on the wall.

a conversation: “he looks like he is going to give 
us a few lessons,” he said, “and they are going to be life lessons.”

“this egg sandwich is good.”

“why wouldn’t they? i mean i would really live but it is too terrible, teddy.”

“chicken shit, better things are here in front of this.” a sudden shutter:

“money has made you a monster.”

passers-by quickly vanish like phantoms, leaping from one place to another hardly aware of the world they live on trees rotating around the sun is a star they stop to rarely wonder at the midnight they are sleeping the moon too the stars stand still they are pulsing unnoticed, dead and forgotten, folklore.

their faces lost in delirium, muttering nonsense trembling

“look at them shake.”

subconscious terror

the world around them is simplicity so then they neglected love.

5,000 feet hurried forward, a single torn paper stirred amongst the rush …

it’s clicking.

sudden negative energy overwhelms like an illness, sick of my stomach … i start breathing with difficulty, another terrible minute passes. i’m trying to speak but breathing through blood bubbling quiver “this is not the way, this is not at all the way.” i am sick of my stomach.

9:22 a.m. ghost zoo … “it’s all about money.” two old men gently converse. one softly speaks as the other inches closer. “i still remember,” he said. “o i still remember that dreary day— friday morning, Kennedy’s head blown off.”

the old man bowed his head in sorrow.

“and now, it’s all about money … it has always been about money.”

still we passed each other unnoticed perhaps the pain of our past still it lingers in our present, perhaps the pain is harder still it presses on our weary brains—ideas they never come during working hours, the pain of our day is pressing still our past is in our present, forgotten future dreams

we are all momentarily passing unremembered;

but this is not the way by all means press on, forgotten past, and stand still

for a minute there i thought i saw something move.

a note taken: 9:49 a.m. in dewey square south station in Boston waiting on the last bus; two sparrows flew sat above me, watching as i wobbled weary up the stairs my legs go weak and shaky, i’m panting, i’m worried, i’m closer i’m dying: “you just need to   click this and it’s over.”

[dorianedgar]

27 Minutes

27 minutes in hell under a suffocating sheet in a dry mustard and strained room rotten walls, i watched bits and pieces of the electrical outlet crack and i thought nothing of it wait, wait a minute quick sharp flash/glance eyes shot sharp at nuts and bolts and screws twisting back in place. nothing but the explanation of ghosts in this room they said was haunted. 27 minutes in hell suffocating spirits

resting on my chest i couldn’t breath for 27 minutes as they laid me down to rest, i watched my hand lift and my fingers painfully bend and contort like loose spaghetti

strings pulled and curtains lifted stranger levitating yellow slit eyes watching floating

forward ever more closer

to me. what it was i will never know as dark jazz musical sounds in to my ears, i couldn’t force myself to listen my eyes watched walls melt and swirl dank yellow colors around and around and around, i went,

“wake up, you’re dreaming.”

[dorianedgar]

Waterfront Empire

carrying on my back a 30 pound black bag of architecture   books my burly best friend jane gave me at the storage cottage holding my baby’s gift she gave to me a darling sketch book: looking at the new map now— and i started from flynn ave. to oakledge park on foot for miles. on the waterfront empire crossing the bee bridge and along the railroad tracks i followed, day gazing for miles on foot thinking about this poem under the cheery tree laying in the only patch of wildflowers staring at the azure melting clock sky watching the hawk circle floating still and steady wings on the waterfront empire on foot for miles crossing the maple bridge. i made it. to north beach and burlington bay and watched, sailing sailboats

swaying in the wicked roaring wind, i gazed.

i rested for a minute. in the parking lot a raven ate a seagull: i stood there watching him tear at its rotten flesh guts, eating blood. i rested with him, thinking the world is really simple and most people are the problem. so i forgot about people and proclaimed myself a day gazer. because jonny told me “go to work” so i did. but what’s more? i watched the world swirling shapes and shifting on my rosy red palm a held eternity ethereal waterfront empire   watching waves and the world shape shifting a blue emerald pearl palace in the center of my palm—

i held the world here and now and forever.

[dorianedgar]

BPA&B

Booming light multicolored pandemonium sky orb, I am Prince Dorian Edgar engaging gargoyle giant Arbitrator love making awesome sailor poet Balanced, trapeze swinging tightrope walker.

[dorianedgar]

Hopeful Romantics

Two green turtle dove turquoise floating feather wings purple and blood orange pink mountain horizon vanilla billowing pillow sky thank you love thank you Bonita baby doe thank you for waiting for me ... I know I know I know, this time I took awhile longer I'm slower this time around but we are not hopeless romantics I will always find you again and again and over and over whirlwind loving sailboat soaring sunset beyond nirvana and better than heaven baby you'll never have to worry again I'll tell you over and over again I'm your maned wolf roaring lion man forever and ever after beating heartbeat one and one only love.

wiggle your lovely soul golden heart push it out of your throat and plop it here on my lap caressing and caring and petting your pretty pussy cat cheery beating heartbeat: chivalry isn't dead.

"What's that baby cakes?”

"I'm a triple L honey bucket.”

"What do you mean babe?”

"I'm your Life Long Lover."

[dorianedgar]

[dorianedgar]

[dorianedgar]

excerpt from, Selfiology

“Women hardly recognize a good man standing in front of them because the world is full of assholes. Hardly anyone is authentic anymore. And most relationships are more and more often arbitrary, a debauched dissolution based on fickle thinking and, as they say, a fucking fun time. But forget it. The rarity of a good hearted and honest connection is likely the reality of wandering upon a 1943 copper wheat penny in a random pile of unwanted articles. But there are times, however, and every once in awhile the occasion strikes good and on time, and a loose piece of change falls from a worn pair of forgotten jeans—so I start for the bar. That is a true and eternal love. Different, yes, for everyone has their individualistic taste … but mine is alcohol. She never disappoints me and she always lightens the mood. Memento mori, let the good times roll and let them roll back into memory. Raise a glass and toast to truth, because tomorrow I might not be here.”

[dorianedgar]

[dorianedgar]

1776 Schooner Roaring Royal Savage

when i’m good and gone don’t dare weep at the willow valley vaguely acknowledge the fact first and move on commemorate the champion i went out about and forever around fighting warrior against the wind against the trouble storm of draping blue wisteria waging war for myself self-respect and self-acceptance,

love thy self.

my head of water some shallow sunken ships shipwrecked. some so sorrow still sailboats sailing, remember i stood for selfiology:

love thy self.

compassionate sailor sailing on

mindfully meditatively mingling.

never stop, refuse unruly hatred warmongers. re-fuse mental wires. i tested the limits, remember that. somos instantes—raise hell and tell them! i left marks for mammals to track down, poem songs dancing: never forget!

never forget.

don’t you dare weep for me at the willow valley my body resting blood waking new life after death, after death life is sleeping. i’m sleeping until then another golden dawn.

good night.

[dorianedgar]

Five Chimed Bell

afternoon five o’clock in burlington five chimed bell on church street sitting in the pub drinking heavy ale thinking people tell you what they will do

something isn’t right, they don’t do what they say.

so what?

the alcohol will seep its weasel way through my empty stomach, and soon the world would gleam and grab gloriously like the sun behind the mountains.

[dorianedgar]

First Day on the Job

blue bagging boxes in the factory line watching liquid nitrogen spill fog floating frosting red floor snow smiling inside and outside i'm mourning

Bella Bond in Boston. her mother influenced boyfriend claiming

your child is a demon and it's time she dies.

Baby Doe, bright eyed and brilliant, dead in a black garbage bag.

and you're inside.

yeah, raise your hands against evil twins. but keep your hands up, and never forget.

in a few weeks you forget. you need something, what sex marginalizing your guts and glory, cum comes once. what's love anymore? but sick and forgotten for your car, your weak victories over material success your home, your meek and quick marriage television your sidewalk pride your sideways consensus restaurant resting dim musical background babbling he is that she is this and we fight about this and that conceptions.

she's forever.

[dorianedgar]

excerpt from, Selfiology

Sometimes pressure seems to be pressing, but always tell them how you feel. Only the good ones handle the difficult degrees of dealing, because they want to feel things through, to understand. Those who leave, leave because they’re unaware of understanding the matter or means in point thereby pathetically unable to form a solution. Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. I forgive them for I cannot please them. They have different degrees of dealing.

[dorianedgar]

Truth and Lies

the world wrestles with saints and warriors, in history we see one never without the other: from war to peace to pieces to wholes.

[dorianedgar]

Dry Death

remnants of old town petrichor so sweet the smell of rain after a dry death but he no longer lives there. let me explain, he is living 19th century lifestyle and he’s at Manhattan Pizza Pub drinking Bengali beer sitting at a table alone. there is the Burlington Bay where he sits sometimes at the dock wasting time. he is a resfeber. he is no ladies man. he is the centurion, the arbitrator. you’ll never notice him, he hides. in plain sight, he sees. his shadows and ghosts and memories: they are gold and glittering. building crenellations with ballast behaviors and wait a minute bad boy mannerisms fuck.