Hungry ghosts are all around.
in the hunger for perfection,
a greedy one,
makes me go back and
the one that stops the flow and thinks thinks thinks till my ears explode.
this one wants the right spelling and gramar
it won’t permit key stroke errors.
that hungry ghost eats me everyday.
It wants to eat my whole entire life,
seasoned with inanity and the details, purposeless without the sweetly flawed flow of a genuine canvas to express its artful corrections on.
Yes, hungry ghosts are everywhere.
they are pushing delicately thoughts of past times over and over into now
remembering when she did this? And i did that?
enveloped in those soft grey places, quicksand pulling us life-less through years and years and years
My grandfather was swallowed by the hungry mud in Lancashire, early last century
pulled out by a passing man and his walking stick.
there would be no I to ponder being alive
in this body; this time
Pulled out, he was given the chance to live.
So too I, and We
sinking, connected, calling out
For the stick that saves us is