Blueprint for a Ghost

An alchemist
never shows their tricks—
equal parts antenna 
and wishing well.

Mixed up mystics 
sing tarot card blues,
at home in the catacombs, 
painting in broad strokes
with both missives
and misgivings.

Under a cement sky
two angels 
passed out in the snow--
charcoal souls 
yet to cast long shadows.

A pair apparently past their prime
stops time
while wedding bells ring out 
from the tower at
Our Lady of Serendipity.

Meanwhile, a fragile mind 
in a hardened shell
confuses a battle cry
for a mantra
and the post-stress hunger
for a fire in the belly.

On the morally ambiguous side of town,
at the cowboy bar 
where tabs sit at half-staff,
a table of rockabilly ladies 
reflect upon train beats and twirls,
trading places on the dance floor.

And the scrap metal eccentrics
accept the wrought iron fences 
and the pinched chaos of alleyways
(no thanks to the snowbanks)

So go fetch the composite sketch,
substances and circumstances,
truth-telling and bloodletting,
all on the rarefied airwaves 
of a clear afternoon.

It is best to document the disasters,
the dangers, the delight.
For fear entombs the senses
and you’ll need a map 
to find your way back.