There have been more baby ghosts lately with few fit for heaven. The air in the room is toxic. The government feels threatened thinks everything smells like graffiti and can’t get the statues cleaned fast enough to keep up with the surge of new cases developed by those kissing the rings on them. The man down the hall keeps showing up without a mask on. He wants to go viral. Nobody can fire him and nobody wants him. He is an escape agent who would be as chaotic dead. They aren’t sure if he will ever die or if he is even real. There is no such thing as retirement anymore. They tell us it was an accident that didn’t exist and I believe them. I quit with commitment. Man cannot live on letters alone. I approach paper as a body of instinct. I devour you.
Beyond where I can go is the only place to be with you
I have written myself into better oblivion. This wish is driven by the desire to dissolve these manufactured disconnections. Singularly undeniable, with my shoes on, I walk into the river, a letter in each pocket, one for you and one for the ghosts explaining origins I am not afraid of. I approach water as a spirit of memory. I deliver myself to you.
This is an excerpt from Matthew Clifford’s most recent book Postscript published by the 8th Street Publishing Guild. You can find him at mattclifford.org.