There is no separation,

she said. That is such an illusion,

the longest-running con-job

this side of the moon.

Do not believe

the shit that comes

out of the pipelines

of splintered masses.

(She knocked on my forehead

three times, wanting to get through).

Just because there are

walking talking ghosts

existing in a self-generated vaccuum

of separateness,

doesn’t mean you need to throw

a white sheet over your head

and make bad porn out of haunting.

You’ve got a heart, a fool’s plaything,

wonderstruck and lovesick, tune in

to the cave-depths of its wisdom and hunger,

not to vacancies filled by dead air,

or empty spaces rented by talking heads.

You wanna know what it’s all about?

(I nodded yes,

and she proceeded

to kiss me

full on the mouth.)

There, from my lips to yours,

the virtues of a most tender exorcism.

Feel better?

(I said I did,

and then watched as she faded,

leaving me to linger warmly

in her silence,

beyond ordinary claims,

and so very full

of life.)