ON COMING BACK FROM THE DEAD
consciousness is a gift, uncertain as tomorrow. dreams remembered, looming as the movie in the darkened theater, half-remembered and atmospheric, gone in the piercing of light. transitory as discarded cups and buckets of popcorn. maybe our past lives are in them somewhere, somehow as translucent as they are ephemeral. was it the haunted house in philadelphia or the demon-plagued hallway in florida that finally contributed to the skewed reality between us, so that at christmas we gather in a circle to sing, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.