Can’t Leave Until You’re Gone

You were just kids pretending
To be real theater kids.
You encouraged each other
To audition together.
You lacked actual talent
But sometimes you landed parts.
You liked the theater dark.

You liked sneaking in off-hours,
Ostensibly to rehearse.
You liked the lack of windows,
The spooky glow on the stage.
You liked to tell each other
It was the theater’s ghost.
You made up stories for it—

A hidden, unwanted child
Raised alone under the stage
Who came out to sing at night
When no shows were in progress.
The child had learned all the shows,
All the parts, the lines, the songs.
In your stories, it was shot

By a security cop
Or frightened stage manager
Who caught it singing alone
By the ghost light, refusing
To stop. Now, you decided,
It was still there to haunt you,
The way you haunted yourselves

By hiding and whispering,
Floating tremolo voices
From dark corners to startle
Each other into small yelps.
And then you left. You gave up,
Grew up, went into your worlds,
Imprisoned ghosts in your skulls.

Lie Objects

A lie is only anything
That only exists as its names

A myth is only anything
A fiction only anything

A god is only anything
The same the same the same the same

Before going too far this way
Try to recall how many names

Began as actual labels
And then how many stayed that way

A minority admit it
So many more lost referents

Had their referents stripped by death
Or shuffled away for new ones

The whole unstable edifice
Of a mostly pointless deixis

So that most names only make sense
As only their own existence

Why Your Future Golf

Balls won’t roll as far as they do now.
Following a long list of items
About AI and global warming,

Corporate leaders estimating,
Prognosticating, and quarreling
Over profits and the odds of doom,

There’s this—that in the future, golf balls
Won’t roll as far, thanks to new designs.
The future’s a ludicrous monster.