Ben Mirov


The sidereal vibes
float down through clouds
and then move on forever
beyond our trembling melancholic visions,
across the purple land
full of murmurations
and defenestrations
and skillful weaving.
In out in out in out in out
preparing a plot of land
in which to plant your pulses.
And then off to the ghost convention
a voice in the murmuring din.


Nothing is truly important
but the beloved’s face
recorded in a moment’s silence,
before it rejoins
the eternal blur.
Numbers numbers numbers
whirl in a shadowy head.
Close the door before you go.
I feel a little dead.


Have you ever lifted
the edge of the idea curtain
to find sidereal light
pours through the crack
into the pitch black curvature
of your brain illuminating
the inchoate wraiths that flap
in the obsidian sap of your thoughts?
Neither have I. Some days
I can’t even leave the kitchen.
I just stand there weeping
on the dishes, waiting
for the white glove of magic
to carry me away.


Each time I look into myself
I see a wide valley
lit by blue moonlight
with nothing in it
but a few trees
and an old fence.
I know there is really
nothing there
waiting to become
something real.
Even the light
from the moon that floats
just out of the frame
is fake. Everything is fake
except the topology
draped over the void
that holds everything up
in my box of lies.

Ben Mirov is the author of Hider Roser (Octopus Books, 2012), Ghost Machine (Caketrain, 2010) and the chapbooks Vortexts (SUPERMACHINE, 2011) I is to Vorticism (New Michigan Press, 2010) and Collected Ghost (H_NGM_N, 2010). He grew up in Northern California and lives in Oakland.