I heard a little cough
in the room, and turned
but no one was there

except the flowers 
Sarah bought me 
and my death’s head

glow in the dark key chain
that lights up and moans
when I press the button

on top of its skull
and the ghost 
I shyly name Aglow.

Are you there Aglow 
I said in my mind,
reader, exactly the way

you just heard it
in yours about four 
poem time units ago

unless you have already 
put down the paper directly
after the mention

of poetry or ghosts.
Readers I am sorry 
for some of you

this is not a novel. 
Good-bye. Now it is just
us and the death’s head

and the flowers and the ghost
in San Francisco thinking
together by means

of the ancient transmission device.
I am sorry 
but together we are

right now thinking 
along by means 
of an ancient mechanistic

system no one invented 
involving super-microscopic 
particles that somehow

(weird!) enter through 
your eyes or ears 
depending on where

you are right now
reading or listening.
To me it seems

like being together 
one body made of light 
clanging down through

a metal structure
for pleasure and edification.
Reader when I think of you

you are in a giant purple chair
in a Starbucks gradually leaking power
while Neil Young

eats a campfire then drinks
a glass of tears
on satellite radio.

Hello. I am 40.
I have lived in Maryland,
Amherst, San Francisco,

New York, Ljubljana, 
Stonington (house 
of the great ornate wooden frame

holding the mirror the dead 
saw us in whenever 
we walked past),

New Hampshire at the base 
of the White Mountains
on clear blue days

full of dark blue jays
beyond emotion jaggedly piercing,
Minneapolis of which

I have spoken 
earlier and quite enough, 
Paris, and now

San Francisco again.
Reader, you are right now
in what for me is the future

experiencing something 
you cannot
without this poem.

I myself am suspicious 
and cruel. Sometimes 
when I close my eyes

I hear a billion workers 
in my skull 
hammering nails from which

all the things I see 
get hung. But poems 
are not museums,

they are machines
made of words, 
you pour as best

you can your attention 
in and in you the poetic 
state of mind is produced

said one of the many 
French poets with whom 
I feel I must agree.

Another I know 
writes his poems on silver
paint in a mirror.

I feel like a president
raising his fist in the sun.