Vibrant Ghost

Peter G ResPeter G ResPeter G ResPeter G Res

Vibrant Ghost

by Peter G Res

Differentia Press

Santa Maria, CA

Vibrant Ghost

by Peter G Res

Copyright © 2009

All Rights Reserved.

Published by Differentia Press

Book Design by Felino Soriano

Cover Image, courtesy of Duane Locke

Except for the sole purpose for use in reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any

form, without the written permission from the publisher.

Differentia Press

Santa Maria, CA 93458

submissions@differentiapress.com

Differentia Press Poetic Collections of the │Experimental Spectrum│

differentiapress.com

For my mother, Barbara

In all forms

Acknowledgements

Primary thanks are due to my family (and close friends) for providing emotional support and

space during the unexpected malaise that has entered our lives. Somehow, the unconventional

formation of this collection has found an equally unique home. For this, I am indebted to Felino

Soriano for the opportunity to present my work in such an exciting and open forum as Differentia

Press. Our correspondence over these past few months has provided me with rare poetic hope

and philosophical solace. Thanks also to fellow poets Danny Ross and J. Hope Stein, for reading

over infantile drafts of “Neon Soliloquies” and expressing their excitement for the project as

concept.

Thanks to Duane Locke for the use of his wonderful photo, and to my dear soul Ofer Levy, for

capturing me.

Table of Contents

Neon Soliloquies______________________________________________________________10

Medicine____________________________________________________________________16

Circus______________________________________________________________________17

The Oxygen Revolution________________________________________________________18

Sunday______________________________________________________________________19

Bask________________________________________________________________________21

Yard Work__________________________________________________________________22

Carousel____________________________________________________________________23

Vibrant Ghost

Neon Soliloquies

The eternal setting is a prescription

stamped with thin ink like the light

that pervades our house.

If we had maps

and cannons of bone marrow for Stevie’s

cancer my sister would have her bike

unstolen: heavens of pills would pour

onto us in warm letters.

We’d be kids raving

with bright globes for eyes

falling into flower pots

of death and laughter.

A woman at the drug store

stops me. Stills with violets

in her hair and triple

antibiotic ointment

in mind. Asks:

“I think we’re on the same path?”

I smile slightly. Place her in shadows

of mind. Grab my goods

for the filling and fly.

From home-windows splayed open

a traffic signal explodes:

the bell of her skull cracks

as a watermelon

slides down your throat.

Little black seeds

take root in your digestive

come to coat the walls

and ceiling as disruptive

eyes turning over your stomach.

Linger all light in waving arms

till the belly of the sun

bulbous and purpling

vomits out wings

of flightless birds

beautiful smiles.

And the clouds

would be ribbed dragon scales

like bright rinds echoing night:

where was my kimono?

Purple and violent among fireflies

burning jade as night

falls to its side tells us to leave

well enough alone the house

is crashing into light.

Sing in a slap of night. What great

clay palms squashed your sorrow?

I’m glad.

Go off to darker galaxies of mind

bring back radio

active casseroles with pills

lined inside. We’ll eat with the moon

break mother down to our bellies

glisten and fly.

Figure the pink shadow of the sun

unspoken

through blue parens crouching beside us

as we die. Get born! Half-still in light

retreating a while white flag burning

from a stethoscope of oblivion

in her eyes.

Float upside down until

a menace of mouths comes railing

from all the banisters of your life

bringing water and soft hammering

to the easy borders of clouds

like black checkers crossed

with your blood: tattered transfusions

in mistaking your garden

(the girth of tomatoes) for hearts.

Foam a bright linen web

descendant in distant waves of saliva

warm of the pets and pollen bowls

that outlive us.

So swell that porcelain!

Stained into our bones

seeped into the marrow clear

and clear

broken on the floor

of our ears.

Today we say: fuck the sky!

I rest my head on the dog’s brow

because her softness clings

to the supple eyes of time

unquestioned. For she has eight breasts

with enough milk to feed us.

Today, Julie came home from Brooklyn

for Mom’s sake with a bike she sewed

together herself. Dad looked-up

the cure for all ails but refused

to call the hospital.

Mom said: take out the ‘must’

bring me mashed potatoes and hot turkey

no rush. We brought her electrolytes

with gravy and summer ice for the fungus

from raw borders of our shoulders

where wings won’t grow.

We fight over spots on the porch.

I remember dad yelling: “stay away

from me and your mother, whatever this

madness is its contagious.” But I’m an artist

I tell him in dream. I keep this up

so our ghosts won’t lose interest

I tell myself

again and again.

My father pisses off the porch

shying at the sight of me hiding

beneath the rose bush with my own

thorns painted purple idling

at the stillness of the yard

as a mirror: spider cracked

in three places duct taped to the base

of our mouths. I crouch

and politely ask him to leave.

Me with a taunting sky keeping

its salts from us in patient

gusts of no wind that ever bartered

so deep

as a figure drawing or the letters

we stamp out

for the family gathered in their respective

orbs corners of blaring sky blinding

all our shields of forced

air freshness laughs at her

immune system: “Mom’s fever has gone down

to a hundred.”

Medicine

The etymology of spices, flicked into

your boiling cocoanut water.

A hint of tooth at the nostril

a love for texture

beguile outside for a change.

Someone tossed lemons they’d gone

flat in the bowl like miniature suns

or dried-out stars you were

sparring at the refrigerator

when it happened.

Assuming the drawers had locks

like the mind closing its exhibit

on a scuffle between birds:

Bluejays drunk on sky

and the light from the kitchen.

Behind the chairs

a paned door that never opened.

Lemon juice would be cause

for remedy instead

you figure

odd inclinations of wind

and the widening eyes of your trees.

Note: this possession recurs in dream.

Your head is a waft of summer bees

restless in the stench of your cocoanut water.

Circus

Sleep is a sparse handful

of curled centipedes in your milk

the half-and-half from France

draining silk into your pipes—bones

your father fixed in the scaled dark

with that infamous Klein toolbox.

Face you kept up like a nervous system

of bees in your closet—never stung.

So what comes

at the foot of Insomnia’s writhing anyway?

Are there inverted choruses

and trampolines spiraled back to life?

The Oxygen Revolution

You come gather your echoes

like an embarrassed mother

in the flowing darks of dignity

and disgrace we dawn

suns from the blinds.

Keep in mind the insipid

rinds that were shaved into

your skin from being forked

out of that swirl

like a thermophile baking

in its cell before oxygen

brought the grand death

of carbon monoxide

atmospheric genocide

in your prelude.

This is how you connected

to yourself in the garage

behind the wheel like

an understudy turning

the key and blacking out

the superfluous breaths

practice, your fingers numb

and feverish as a kid

playing sick

before the hit.

And none of this

really happened of course

your mind the scrapping

point for each dream

a waving scene complete

with millimeter film

and the prints.

How you scoured

constantly huffing

that steam rose

from your pages.

Borrowed

the ages of relatives

to preserve mother’s Ancient

sieve that you might strain

some life-out-yet.

Time you quaked in the ruins

of my mind those flimsy fouled

houses got bought out

by the government.

How I could hoard you

like my father does

with every tooth

we ever lost.

Browned from generations

of greased hands

the cold wet spaces

of our moss.

Sunday

Stunt-like you spoke

to the people who were holding your father.

Forest tinted jar they kept his brain in

glowing as an orchid with big black eyes.

Worlds pulsing in sunspots tooled armor

of plasma cutters and the rain. His body broke

its limbs in reaction. Became monk-like

miraculous and still.

Bask

Rock-euphoria from the underbelly

of our patio bubbling in elderly

swills—winds chomp lavender

soft madness into solace.

Your mother comes running

with penicillin smoothies fresh peas

of all memory forgotten.

Piled in bland expansive folders

posed as long-lost neighbors

or former cells: here to discuss the health

of your garden.

Yard Work

Barbara died in her under-worlds

and holy shirt, braless as a Buddha

caught off-guard. Flash frozen

in your garden, cursing her flowers

for their planting, the watering gone

undone.

Simple weathering

lilacs on granite countertops

close their eyes. Hide

in swift clippings of buds

like the bulb you stole

from your sister’s bathroom

to illuminate only your corners.

“At the funeral for the dog,

you’ll have a real casket” or one fashioned

out of her hair. Bury her fragrance

in soft mulch and impatiens

whatever absence lingers to know:

The garden is kept concentric and clean

nothing else matters.

Carousel

I walked to the exact spot where I had been killed as a child.

Saw it happen to others. Did nothing. Then I woke:

to an airy economy hotel room. From what I can remember

there were life-sized installations of letters from friends

bloc-ink-blots shouting lime.