MAD GHOSTS
Allison Eir Jenks
Restless, amateur ghosts
beat and toy with this faulty world;
inventing hazards as patriots of heaven.
Vicious snail ghosts bind,
making tornadoes, chopping our land.
Uncivil duck ghosts puke,
poisoning the lakes.
Ghost bees coat thorn roses with honey,
stabbing us for wanting sweet.
They think we're foolish,
brushing our hair and wearing suits.
They overshadow us with warning.
Even without oxygen, these traders will live,
breathing on our pain.
Hypocritical souls who were blind
to virtue while here,
sit in the back seat of our fancy cars,
their wisdom of after-life
a motive to circle our damages.
They send us cranky weather,
carrying sharp tools,
doing surgery on our brains,
altering our rationale.
They are assigned to sectors and emerge,
cooperating to punish us for our greed.
We are doomed
In between the fire swamps and glowing clouds
With unstable borders.
Earth is their cinema of comedy;
Their chess game;
Their museum of
a home they don't miss.
They think the loss of life is overrated
and are anxious to take us from here.
