Poem: Ghost In The Machine

The last few days I have been traveling and attending the Terry Plunkett Poetry Festival in Augusta, which is Maine's big event during National Poetry Month. I'm not the most gregarious or socially agile soul, and it is rather difficult of me to hover on the fringes; but here I am, experiencing a modicum of really good poetry and a larger soporific dose of rather mediocre work.

(You can see from the above statement why I am not a wonderful networker).

Anyway, the following poem was published in Thieves Jargon, a streetwise online zine with a deserved reputation for lean mean quality work.

Thanks for reading.

OWL

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Ghost In the Machine

i am red squid and pink squid
tangled together around bone,
and two breathing graves.

i am a cauliflower of fireworks
on spliced cable
which branches down
to spark in palms and soles.

i am in denial,
fancying myself more than illusion,
not wyrm or will-o’-wisp,

making decrees
and snickering to sneer,
pooh-poohing the clues.

a magistrate
unaware of his perch,
or the depth of its weight,

ignorant of his codex,
denying the source
of all he tries.