The Man Who Spoke to Ghosts The Man who Spoke to Ghosts went deaf, at least that's what he told meunder the bridgewarmed by cheap wineand Sterno flame. "You know you can't drink that shit to get high anymore, right?" he asked me. He said it was great being deafbecause the whole world was wound upneat and tightin a packagein his headwhere it hummed.Now his ears were locks that kept it all inand kept the voices out. The Man who Spoke to Ghosts told me it was nice to be alone, for once, with his red wineand canned heatand his own thoughts -alone without the voices to bother him. He said the ghosts were tedious and dull, had no soul, no life, nothing interesting to say. He said they bored the shit out of him.With their constant whiningand carpingand pining for the livesthey once had -the lives they ignored when they had them. He took another pull from his bottle, gave me a slap on the knee, and told me it was great being deaf."Finally, a little peace," he said. Above us the semisand commutersand joyridersrumbled past, shaking the concrete pillars of his home.Of course the Man who Spoke to Ghosts heard nothing. I opened my mouth to say somethingbut stopped.And the Man who Spoke to Ghosts went on being deaf.