jack spicer, you’re my ghost

by Po, Editor-in-Chief

so when i write about you i flinch
it’s like looking in a mirror
except the mirror’s on fire, the mirror’s melting,
the mirror’s just facing
another mirror.

jack spicer, you’re my ghost
so when i write about you i shiver
i mean i’m always shivering,
habit. my habits. our habits.
the word habit-

(i don’t know if you’d appreciate my constant use of the word “etc.”
but it’s not up to you,
you’re just a reflection of me. remember?)

jack spicer, you’re my ghost
which is why commas are so important to me-
jack spicer you’re my ghost.
see how different that is?
when i look at your face in that old photograph
(not the one at the gallery, the one that everyone uses, but you
sitting in a doorway
smoking a cigarette)
i see myself.
never mind my white blonde hair and
smudged eyeliner.
never mind my scars.

jack spicer you’re my ghost
so when i talk about you i’m self-conscious
i used to be so self-conscious but i got over that
i think.
around the time i realized the impermanence of the male gaze.
you got self-conscious when you realized it, though.
you’re my ghost, so that could make sense.
the inverse.

i miss you.
i mean, i
miss me.
where did i go? last time i saw you
i was so much younger.

jack spicer, you’re my ghost
so i feel the words being pulled-
bloody and stringy-
from my soul,
or whatever that amorphous flimsy inner bullshit is-
let’s call it a soul.
not that you believed in that
except when you did
and yes, i know you’re dead-
fuck you.

FUCK you.

i want a beer
and half a bottle of vodka
seven glasses of merlot
and a shitload of benzodiazepines.
as long as we’re making a wishlist:
(nine grams)
and an infinite, everlasting amount of speed, heroin and vicodin.


ghosts are like twins but not.
ghosts are like zombies but not.
ghosts are like lovers-
i hate the word lovers-
but not.

(you loved to talk about ghosts.
maybe you already knew you were one, yourself.)

jack spicer, you’re my ghost
so when i breathe
(which we know is only sometimes)
i breathe liquor
and scrawl poetry up and down my arms.
sometimes i call cuts poetry
sometimes i call scars poetry
because sometimes they are.

jack spicer you’re my ghost
which means i’m already dead,
was already dead,
when you spilled my blood on the page.
you cut open my veins-
our veins-
and the blood poured out deep and red

but on the page
it dries transparent.

– – –

[That photo of Jack has been saved on my desktop for ages, no idea who took it or when]



  1. Rebecca Kramer says:

    I love this piece. I love everything about it, and i am an idiot and new nothing of Jack Spicer—i feel slightly more educated now on the matter.

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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from tumblr.com). Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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