Ghost in the moment of a universe without man

Ghost seeps out dead blood to begin
savage exploitation of the virtual mind,
like the question that pierces
the heart of the president
of a political party—
a damnation, humping a rock
to cop a feel that never comes—
the mind rode off with el Dorado
on a white horse,
so you see to piece it back
together how much magic is required:
a force unstoppable like Hollywood thunder,
a force of requiem for a dollar,
a force unstoppable like a ghost on a high note,
hunchbacked over Paris with fear in his eye—
Ghost sees incredible futures
no matter what happens
cause there’ll always still be a universe
without human eyes—
raising a mirror
throws violence of total self
flat until cut away: look—no
solid image but only glass
looking up, Ghost leaning
back against the tain

Shady Lost Deliveries

there’s something in their eyes
that can’t quite be seen

like gulls when you throw out
bread not for them

terrible roads followed by their children—
have you met them, have you
followed them—always
ready to choke up something
for their young

if you dare to look at them,
you will be ready
to deny them what they
cannot live without

they blame him for bringing
them into the world,
for feeding them—and what
have they done wrong—
there was a wrong and they
committed it

they expect deliveries—
it will come to them

it will ride, little ones,
it will sweep you off
your feet

it will miss the boat
and fall face first into the water—
the boat—who needs it;
there will be another

Overall, the Dying

I best tolerate the silences
in my life if I have had my say

I’m reaching for the stars
like the others

yet I can sip a cup of tea with god,
that is, drinking tea to drink it
and looking for nothing else

the poverty of her life—
she was standing outside at Union Station
under the architecture;
like I was making a movie, my glance
at her directed the movement
of her cigarette, and she had done
something, finished it

here at Union Station I always
see the people scientists hope
to understand

Christians have the greatest perceived control
and the least belief
in god yet the highest anxiety
of their own deaths

what does our heaven mean—
why are the dead always
watching the living from their
clouds

like the porter, at ease
on a bench waiting for a customer—
between one action and
the next

progress is a course of action
that we measure
and control

two packs a day, ten dollars an hour

he’s baring the crotch of his pants
pulling aside the shirt tails,
coming toward me,
turning to see the girl
in orange dress as she passes

the cigarette smoker who so archly
brought up her arm-hand-cigarette
now too is gone

what strikes me is they are not
as hostile as I expected—in fact,
casual, in fact, controlled—
I am not the enemy
after all

Jeff Bagato is a multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, H&, Ex-Ex Lit, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found by clicking here…