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                       Ghosts of Arco                    
(To be considered while listening to "Ghost of Arco"   on
Blue Nebula's second CD                 Sightings       )
---------------------------------------------------------
           A slow,                                       
             white                                       
             storm of crystals,                          
fresh powder from the sky.                               
                                                         
(   raced in snow shoes,                                 
  dragged each 's sleds,                                 
   packed all the snow in the driveway to                
    uncer                                                
         tain forms.)                                    
                                                         
                    (  made muffins,                     
              wrist deep in streusel,                    
   wondering if  'd done something wrong,                
             if  'd overlooked an ingredient             
         or stirred  the batter too long.)               
                                                         
(  broke in a new pair of slippers with    negative space
                 up and down the stairs.)                
Is this    life?                                         
                                                         
                 drank hot chocolate                     
             and smiled at each other                    
through all the sweet impressions                        
                   'd been assured                       
                           of                            
                        by wise men.                     
                                                         
                           Jeff Boughner                 
           hops from shadow to shadow:                   
           hot lava     in the sunlight,                 
          cool promise  in the shade:                    
                                    ?                    
                        child's play:                    
     to stab that lance of attention                     
   into the world however it lays   .. ? ..              
                                                         
(  got the car washed for the showmanship:               
                           brushes slapping              
          black clods from the undercarriage,            
                            the thrill of it.            
                                What a blast!            
                                            )            
No spool rewinds,                                        
the tape rains down                                      
                                 (why pause?)            
         records to the floor                            
   in a brown         and sure                           
                      catastrophe                        
                      chrysanthemum,                     
                    a slender shush:                     
                 some swampy splash of hips              
        or something true like arch                      
                                aeo                      
                                 logy                    
                       trying its charms                 
                                     among               
                                      braggarts          
      everything in proper proportion:                   
                                      just               
                     "happy to be here,                  
whatever                                                 
                      bluster stands between             
.":                                                      
                    the list of moments,                 
              every word                                 
     the negative                                        
                space of some                            
       burst of sadness                                  
the impressions shatter                                  
            and                                          
                rewrite.                                 
A ghost lingers                                          
              off the tail                               
of a powerful hook:                                      
                                                         
      Take a drink,                                      
      take a drink,                                      
fall                                                     
           on                                            
                  the floor.                             
                                                         
      Take a drink,                                      
      take a drink,                                      
fall                                                     
           on                                            
                  the floor.                             
                                                         
There are no lies                                        
   or compromises to the dark down here.                 
                                   Hear                  
a voice echo from the ear                                
                                  -th,                   
without sadness or knowing,                              
                                   sing,                 
to the blue nebulas if   must.                           
                               (I) dream                 
    of blue nebulas as well.                             
     It's a knot at my heel,                             
    a sharp pain in my knee,                             
         a hunch in my neck.                             
    I grow old with this                                 
                 on this                                 
    deer trail over sand dunes,                          
               the water looms                           
                  (in the ear                            
               before the eye.)                          
                  for the love                           
           of the fog                                    
      and the sparrow,                                   
         blue nebulas in infinite space                  
                 (singsongstonobody)                     
               like insects                              
       dappling the water's surface,                     
     straddling their own reflections,                   
nearly one with the dawn                                 
   in some                                               
             too far gone Summer.