In the hunt for happiness

I smell old turds, uncover

overgrown rocks and search

under bushes.

 

Broken twigs?  Crushed leaves?

Where are these invisible traces?

Beside me my ghost travels

He asks me no question

he is silent

he is invisible

he has no expression

he doesn’t really exist

But when I arrive at night

my long day’s journey over

my unreal reflection in

another world sits when I sit,

my personal mimic.

 

In his world he is

like a skull in bridal lace

awaiting its resurrection in

mothballs - half deserted by

moths who flutter half-alive

to meet their maker

dancing round rosie

ringing the candle

and only their toes

touch the flame.

 

O Calpurnia!

Where is commitment?

Where is devotion?

Where is duty?

Shall we search our

northern shores for these sandy creatures?

Should we send expeditions into

the Arctic to seek for

these treasures in the snow?

Bring back alive 2 Inuit

3 polar bear

and 1 snowflake

sans oil to me

sans teeth

sans soucis.

 

I fear all has fled in smoke

to the shining moon

where it lies like dust.

 

My happiness is not in this world.

Fly me to the moon

to dig for it

under Neil Armstrong’s rocks.

 

And if not me

Send my personal phantom. 

He will bring back in a bottle

joy like a genie

thick as a cloud

even if it is

unreal

and just as hard to touch.