Typewriter Ghosts

Georges Cunningham



People walking by me

as I sing a song

a song to open wounds

and visions to the past.


So many people

walking by

leaving imprints in the concrete.

Faceprints imagined, fallen laughter

Graceful and refined

Taller and taller

Greater and greater.


They look, tilt their hands,

perhaps pose a query

of why you don't have hands.

You answer:


Soapbox reform a sock left to rot in a pile of decomposing remains

of a different time, a different day

But a stain now,

But a stain now.

A blemish left to mar

and distract from another

time or place or fancy or gravity

and yet the perverse pleasure recieved

for deed undone but in imagination

time reflects casulties

For time is a liquid,

formed akin to plasma,

that isn't tangible

that isn't imperishable

that isn't meant for me.

Shaded glen hold me for eternity

until the ground permits me

to give back to the world a more sustainable solution

masterly and mastering the essence of a condition unstated

unsealed and unmotioned

The price is falling.

The sky is falling.

But no one really needs the sky, its a placeholder.


So many people

like so many seconds

drifting by, drifting by, drifting by.

Not for me.

Not for me.