“DAY ZERO OF ONE”, “THE GHOST AT THE SÉANCE”, and “YOU ARE THE CONSTELLATION”

By Daniel Luévano

DAY ZERO OF ONE

A cloud foams & stalls on its way to Kansas. 

In the days of meaning we saw 

Well past our skulls—

Last light breaking on a cirrus beach. 

Squalls of little low birds, the nowhere 

Birds. I forget what else. 

Now you know what you know 

By vestiges of LSD 

Or simple genius: 

There is nowhere to go, any which way 

Out these masks we make ourselves 

Real in. 

We may have nostalgia 

For the National Mall & its tchotchkes 

Of intellect, or the arty 

Bosom of NYC, or any English-friendly 

Pit stop on a previously illimitable Earth. 

Now stuck put, dark karma rolls us. 

But we meditate & we party on & 

We pray, functions 

Against our dereliction & isolation & the profound 

Desire to be left alone. 

Not too enlightened. 

Wannabe pilgrims of infallible judgment 

Think their world on a precipice. 

We think our world 

On a precipice. 

But we continue as nurses, voyeurs, lecturers, 

Occultists, Youtubers, bloodletters, clergy. 

As mystics hazarding empirical self. 

As skeptics hazarding the felt & proofless. 

Why we say we matter to each other. 

Why you bother to be funny. 

Asking may we & may we 

Rally. May we, as were there hope in the world.

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THE GHOST AT THE SÉANCE

I know you don’t believe in ghosts 

But in the dark, flickering room, 

Quiet but for the slush of our blood, 

We are fated to believe

By the five senses plus one 

& by her dull illumination

What the spiritualist already knows: 

The world is more than who we are. 

The world is more than what is real. 

I know you don’t believe in ghosts 

So let me say this about the living: 

We each are meant to live

As apparitions

To our former selves, body 

Shedding humiliations

—Toilets, locker rooms, job 

Interviews, failures of kids to become 

Fuller adults. I know you don’t believe 

In anything past

The you, the me, the anyone

Elapsed & rising bright in southern-

Exposed windows over a late spring 

Morning, don’t believe in do-overs,

In slumps, in bounced checks, 

In begging charity of the you 

You were supposed to be.

Our very presence means to terrify.

But the soul like the brain 

Has infinite minus one 

Paths of intelligence. What everyone 

Here wants from spirit 

Is intelligence, is embodiment. 

A ghost never goes to church 

Even should they haunt one: 

All the talk-talk-talk-talk-talk 

& the thump-thumping

Clackity-clacking rhythm backings, 

The crackers & juice instead of bread & wine 

& the dull haircuts & the odd things 

People say about forever. 

Yet, by homemade Ouija board & 

Tarot & retro crystal ball 

We profanely beseech 

Linked around a solid oak dinette 

A hint. A solid clue 

Against the sad, slow letting go 

Of the once & always loved. 

And could that be her, her warm breath 

Puffing on a sallow neck. Could that be 

Her, reconfiguring 

Silhouettes & glints of vision in the shadow 

Hanging over our hands holding 

Hands all around the table. 

We coalesce in a middle distance 

Convinced of ourselves as much as the howl 

Of airless cries between household walls, between 

Whole skies under closed eyes. 

Five & more senses

Once internal, now rise with us 

Like feet out of shoes. 

---

 YOU ARE THE CONSTELLATION

Proofreader. You are a body of several 

Sources of light. Celestially one

Body, coordinates in absolute

Position, but of course thousands 

& millions of light-years removed 

Of true being.

You are the constellation

Fact-checker.

The pyramids that point at you 

Harbor their own obsessions

While your depth, from our perspective, 

Ages & widens, a massively & wildly 

Collapsing identity.

You are the constellation

Data Processor. 

Your folded palms 

A white supergiant 

Your temporal lobe 

A tiny black hole.

You are a gathering of

Carbon, helium, silicon, iron, hydrogen.

You are collectively you

But for whose benefit. Truly not your own. 

The single you. The several you.

A red dwarf

Your single bloodshot eye.

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