they pulled my hair at charm school.

they stole my guestbook during rolecall.

morning melee + October 26. 2005 = insert the new months

once it's gone.
once it's really, really gone.

once it stops telling you about undercover investigations and leaks, tornadoes and hurricanes with the names of old women, the purchase of a $10,000 virtual island, flooding on back bays and the radio voice says: �waves devoured the sand" and then you lose the station. Once it leaves out the telling details. The rip in the chair seat. A mole that is bright red. Fuzzy fragments of rooms and door knobs and parked cars and strips of pavement and sidewalks and books read and not read and buildings described and piles of new yorkers near the bed a chocolate cake recipe a painting with blue streaks a christmas gift from your father maple syrup with a print your mom would have loved. Once the film strip is completely out of focus; once it curves around its death rattle; once you say to yourself: you�re almost done kid, almost.

Then. Then. Will it finally stop checking your pulse to make sure that you're a spot on the map? Will it stop poking long fingers between your ribs on crowded morning trains when it�s all too hot and stuffy? Will it stop inserting strange unsettling fiascoes into all those nights of tangled sleeping patterns? Finally forget your number? The number once pinned to a cold wall in the bedroom you hadn't yet slept in for the 1st time, for the 900th time? The certain sections of the city you loved? The indent in your right elbow where the surgeons stuck those pins when you were 11?

It�s countdown until 2006. 2006 in which the names of it won�t be there. And without names how can it call you?

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ghosts!