Blog Eleven.

there was ghosts in that house like guitars strings plucked and slid, like metallic wires on fingers could touch your hearts, and pianos lay broken and lonely (so we thought) in desolate rural ontario, northward ho! but instead led secret lives of their own and gave self-professed concerts everynight in attendence by the floorboards the drapes and you. but it still can/t quite show the beauty of slow muddy waters swallowed up by dams in hazy kentucky afternoons, sloshing into the silt like that water and that dirt becoming mud held your naked body more comfortably than sheets and beds of itchy woolen hotel rooms ever could where trains cry in nebraska nighttime and goodwilled christians give us seperate beds for single lovers, and christ lay with us and christ lay with us and no, no he didn/t. no we didn/t. no we didn/t because japanese poets had it wrong: we did not murder god in our sleep but dreamed ecstatic of blood and it flowing through our bodies and rivers that we swam in while state park rangers watched disproving behind windows (so we imagined) and slept uncorformorftable but beautiful in sleeping bags and tossled bodies looking like caterpillers and we did, we fucking did turn into beautiful butterflies in our fucking sleep, but it just wasn/t enough to break the c--cocoon of the lazy days and the hot and hazy days, flea markets that sell shit instead of love and statelines that don/t mean anything despite what once we sang (that statelines mean more than you think) and driving instead accidentally into three seperate states: idaho, mississippi, indiana, repeating wrongs of 16 months previous into dead armadillo arkansas and charles manson balladry. but we didn/t see no dying squatter on the side of a nonexistent interstate after leaving towering factories for reflective saltwater lakes and deadend backroads. no, we came home. we came home to where we said home was and we made our home there, and settled down among our books and stacks of knowledge to let our bodies settle like a cage around our hearts, and the slow callous machinery of our bones slowly sinking in the places where once we stood, and instead we lay us down each night to rest like so many disconsolate dreams. did we murder god in our sleep? no. and the electric ghosts can still waltz through our neighbourhood for i love them and i love you.