Thursday, December 31, 2015

Scream 2015, Scream

                2015 reminded me of those really cheesy exploitation films of the 1970’s. You know it’s a terrible movie, bad plot, poorly filmed, terrible editing, all the colors are slightly off, there’s a hair caught in the reel, but you watch it anyway and have a hard time pulling your eyes away.  It’s a movie you’ve seen a hundred times at four o’clock in the morning when you can’t sleep because you’re too worried about all that terrible real world shit that’s constantly happening all around. Yet there’s something awfully soothing about how bad it is.

                You think, “Well, some jerk made this movie, so I guess it can’t be all bad,” and you settle further into your sofa slouch. That’s exactly how 2015 has been for me. It was something I swear I’ve seen before and no matter how much it disgusted me or made me wish for some of that awesome Avid movie editing equipment, I couldn’t stop watching. It just kept happening and I was transfixed.

                Here’s the plot/imagined trailer of my terrible exploitation movie titled, “Scream 2015, Scream”.

                An unemployed insurance claims examiner who fancies himself a writer wakes up on New Year’s day 2015 to find himself still unemployed and wallowing in debt. He’s drunk. He’s unhappy. He’s searching for something to find joy in. He’s dealing with anxiety and depression issues, unresolved childhood traumas, and wondering why he can’t get a date. He’s getting older, hairs are graying, ear hair is growing and he can’t remember the last time he had to run anywhere.  And this time, nothing is going to change. (Cue record scratch) This year, Michael is going to discover, that being miserable most of the time, isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. (Cue cut scene of Michael smashing his car, slipping on an icy sidewalk, swearing at crying children, standing, sitting, eating, smoking, taking a shot, slipping on ice again, taking another shot, smoking, bonking his head against a beautiful woman’s head, taking another shot, and sleeping.) Michael hopes… (cue explosion) to make it out alive… (Cue laughing Vampire) of 2015. “Scream 2015, Scream”, coming to theaters.

                That’s just the first movie too. Wait until the sequel, “Scream 2015, Scream Harder”.   I do hope a sequel isn’t necessary though. I’m sure the original cast won’t be interested in reprising their roles. I’m sure they’ll have moved onto bigger and better projects, like cat wrangling or having babies. I do hope that 2016 is a better movie, slick budget, special effects, purpose, joy and a little love. In fact, if there is a sequel, I would hope it’s the classic story of redemption;  a real tear jerker about overcoming adversity, strife, bullies, financial ruin, and coming out on top.  

                I hope that movie is titled, “I Know What you did 2016, and I LOVE IT”.  With all that said however, I would like to wish all of my faithful readers a serious and hearty Happy New Year. I sincerely hope 2016 brings you all the things you’ve been wanting and wishing for (as long as your interests don’t collide with my interests, of course.)

                Have a very safe and Happy New Year!

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

The Battered Shell

A shell washed up on the shore
along the coast of a battered sea.

The shell's former inhabitant long
gone, moved on to the next, whatever
that may be.

Rough, grooved, cracked and worn
from the tossing and tumbling in the
angry oceans.

Bleached, blasted and beaten on its
uncharted journey through storms and
glassy calms.

The sands of the shore cradle the shell,
its destination found, if not reached.
Gentle and lulling the beach soothes.

A rising winter sun, dappling the shell,
highlighting its iridescent rainbow of

The waves lap gently at the edges, licking
the travel wounds, rolling the shell
further inland.

To be found by a passer-by, to be put on
a shelf, to be presented to a lover as
a heartfelt token.

"This is for you," they'll say as it's
presented. A shy smile on eager lips.
"Thank you my sweet," followed with a

Significance re-made, re-named, through
struggle, through strife, through all
adversity, to be made brilliant by those
that can see.

The story of a shell, on a beach, by a
battering sea. 

Monday, December 28, 2015

In Review of the Review

The end of the year

should illicit some creative

burst, some all encompassing

year-end diatribe about the

life we leave behind and the one

to embrace as it’s messily born

out of the aging womb of the past.


I’m not sure I want to do that though.

I don’t know what can come from a deeply

introspective review of the past year.

I know when I failed, I know when I succeeded.

Do I need to catalogue memories and wrap them in a

bow and name them all, “Nostalgia”.

I don’t think I want to.


Perhaps 2015 followed such a familiar pattern of

triumphs, let-downs, hurts and joys. So common

in fact that I can hardly remember if they even actually

occurred in 2015. Did that really happen in the last 12

months? Did it? Are you sure? Wasn’t that like, three years

ago? Hm, just in June you say? That’s insane.

Completely unworthy of noting.


Or was it an eye opening year full of new

realizations, mind altering therapy, long wrought

battles of the brain finally won, acceptance discovered,

personal understanding revealed? Were there less anvils

dropped on your head? Were hearts opened to new

ideas? Was it a year to go in the books and referred to

as The Golden Year of the Self?


It’s both and neither.

It’s the same and different.

It’s the same hurts by old lovers,

It’s the new smiles by old friends,

It’s the old heartaches,

It’s the new desires unfulfilled.

It was the same stuff a new life is filled with.


I’d like to think that 2016 will be “My Year”.

I’ll turn 40 years old.  

I’ll reach some mid-point in life,

Some milestone of living,

a grand entrance onto the next

stage where I can act the part of a

grown-up but be far more believable.


I never know what the next year will

bring. I never have much of any

expectations, other than keeping my

heart from breaking too often and the

wish that people are generally good to each

other the majority of the time.

I know, from experience, that it will not be easy.


No year ever is as easy as we wish,

No month, day or hour spent in this life

is ever easy. Yet through it all, the fog and mist

of the future, I still think there’s a glimpse of

hope, a light, a flicker of something good coming

and that makes the new year something to look

forward to. It makes the only real difference at all.  

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Another Christmas Shaped Sort of Thing

Hey there Christmas,

What did you get me?


Hey there Christmas,

What did I get you?


Hey there Christmas,

Where’s all the mistletoe?


Hey there Christmas,

Where’s all the snow?


Hey there Christmas,

How’s Jesus?


Hey there Christmas,

How’s his dad?


Hey there Christmas,

Where did my girl go?


Hey there Christmas,

Is there forgiveness in Santa’s sack?


Hey there Christmas,

Will you play my song on the radio?


Hey there Christmas,

Will the lines be short or long?


Hey there Christmas,

Have I been naughty?


Hey there Christmas,

Was I ever really nice?


Hey there Christmas,

Will I ever get it right?


Hey there Christmas,

Will she be mine tonight?


Hey there Christmas,

Will she find our love?


Hey there Christmas,

Will I forget if she doesn’t?


Hey there Christmas,

I’m not pestering you, am I?


Hey there Christmas,

Have a good night.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

The Screaming

Do you hear me.
my broken savior,
can you hear me

can you hear me
in all the broken
time, the lost times,
the sad times.

Can you hear me,
when I’m done,
when I’m hurt
and bleeding

Can you see that
the smile on my face
is really a scream

can you hear it,
the bellowing
heartache, the unrelenting

can you hear it,
the awful hell of it,
the tolling of bells,
the unstoppable
noise of silence.

Can you, can you,
can you hear it?
It peals, and hurts.

Or maybe it’s just
noise and I should

Heartache is the loudest
noise I’ve ever heard.
In like thunder,
out like lightening.

Friday, December 4, 2015

The Clay

Life has crafted me,
a block of clay, sculpted,
molded, hardened, broken,
chipped, repaired, aged,
repaired again. Made whole
and unmade over time.

I was cut from a quarry of
centuries, plopped out into
a world I didn’t make and have
had no part in making. And yet,
I want to unmake so much of it.
I wish to remind the world.

Beliefs change, ideologies change,
principals change like phases of the
moon. Everything can change, does
change. A mountain isn’t a mountain
forever. Eventually it’s worn down by
weathering. Eroded into dust.

There is no perfection, there is no
truth in action, there are lies in deeds,
they’re just ideas, passing through a very
short period of time, ideas of people who
will also pass into nothingness and the void
of the universe.

Beliefs are pillars shoring up what we’ve
been told is the truth. Tear them down and
the nerve is exposed. Two or three centuries
go by and those fossilized pillars are meaningless symbols
of a backwards and bygone time. All the fighting,
struggling and manipulating is lost to new pillars of belief.

I’m made from old clay. Bloody, sweaty, trampled
clay, underfoot warrior’s whims and hopeful dreamers.
I still believe though. I still believe there’s worth to be
had in our temporary souls. I believe in humanity and
the most noble parts of our nature, even in the face
of others infernal disbelief.  

Perhaps we’re more boulder
and less Sisyphus.
Perhaps that example is all the more
reason to see that beliefs can change,
evolve, forgive and become something
common, rather than divisive.

Be unmade, be broken, be remade.
As many times as you can.
Made from the parts of many pieces
spread over time.
Change is the only truth, change is truly
the only constant.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Mortar & Pestle

The great and terrible
grinding, mashing and
powdering of bones in
vessels of terror.
Pulped, pureed, smashed,
squashed and destroyed
in the swirling turns of
the angry hands of time.

A planet, beleaguered in
the mutilation of souls,
in the cosmic beaker of
an untamed universe.

The chewing, the biting,
the masticating of the
essence of what makes us
who we are.

Ground, grind, ground,
repeat, mash, smash, mash,
Specks of pieces of pieces.

Shattered, broken, torn,
stricken, sick with disjointed
aspirations and misjudged

An ivory vessel, a bone
pestle, churning the sandy
remnants of childhood dreams
into reconstructed and medicated

To Take.
To Take It.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Punk Rock Lamentation

Punk Rock kid,
where did you go?
You didn’t give a crap,
now that’s all you know.
Where did that punk go?

now you’re a corporate librarian.
All about Anti-conformity,
now you drink the corporate tea.
It’s delicious.

You lived in waffle makers,
now you’re a deal breaker,
You made your own clothes,
now your sheets are dry clean cotton rose.
So comfy.

Never had a phone or HD,
now all you do is watch TV.
No second thoughts on chai latte,
but now it’s something you must say.
Extra Chai please.

I don’t even know that that is,
but you say it’s something that’s the shizz,
New lingo from the kids,
from your mouth God forbids.

Go get your Doc’s, throw that beer,
we’ve got to get you out of here.
It’s a state of emergency, we need
you out with some urgency.
I’ve got smokes!

Where’s my punk rock friend,
the one that was with me till the end,
walk the rails or drive off a cliff,
it never made a diff.
Where’s that punk rock kid?

Wipe off the mirror, get ready for
work, too much steam in the shower,
fogged the memory, clouded the mind,
Catch the train, time for work, off I go.
Leave that punk behind.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

I had to. If you read yesterday's post, I had no choice

                The sun rose behind Stoneguild Mountain and cast long early morning shadows over the lush fields below. Magnus, leader of the powerful Pony Cats, felt the morning light rise on his furry body. He stretched out his long paws and rolled over onto his opposite side. He yawned and licked at his nose. He thought to himself, “I hate Mondays”, and arched his long back up toward the blue summer sky.

                The rest of the Pony Cats were milling about the fields, some were heading toward the Desert of Feces, and others were poking at some fish along the river’s edge, without actually getting into the water. Magnus wiped at his whiskers and looked over his pony cat troops. They were all a good bunch of pony cats.

                There was Stumperious, the attack Pony Cat, ferocious in battle, articulated armor crafted by the wizards of Callowillow. He was Magnus’ most trusted Pony Cat general. Magnus and Stumperious were pony kittens together after the great ape purge of 2784. They had feasted together for many cycles on the birds and beasts of Cheshire Kingdom. 

                Yellowdimperolon flashed by Magnus’ view as he chased after some small ground varmint. Yellowdimperolon was the lightening to Stumperious’ thunder. Yellowdimperolon was fast and sleek. He was so stealthy that even Magnus was surprised at his mysterious appearances, and always in the nick of time too. Magnus couldn’t count on one paw how many times Yellowdimperolon had arrived at the last unexpected second to save the day.

                The ground shook as Redmane the Blood Thirster leapt up and down at the Canary trees. He was a bit of a slow Pony Cat but he was vicious in his adoration of Magnus. Magnus had rescued Redmane the Blood Thirster from a terrible trap when he was just a Pony Kitty. Redmane the Blood Thirster became the most loyal body-guard Magnus could have hoped for, and he was a giant too.

                Minxelle brushed up against Magnus as he surveyed the Pony Cats starting their day. He’d hoped for some adventure, like dragons or other beasts, or perhaps a nap and sitting in the sun, or eating and then napping and then sitting in the sun.

                “You’re looking well my lord,” said Minxelle as she licked along Magnus’ nape.
                “Yes. I am. As are you my Queen,” said Magnus.
                Minxelle purred lightly and pushed up against Magnus, turning her large head over his shoulder.

                “I have news Sire,” said Minxelle.

                She always had news, she was the feline in the know and Magnus would be lost without her. She was cunning and sly. She was indispensable and yet Magnus had a slight mistrust of her. She was supple and seductive in her diamond saddle and tiara.

                “The Horse Lords will be migrating today. We might have a very good chance to pick them off as they drive through Briargulch,” purred Minxelle.
                “Ah, the annual Horse Lord days are upon us. Perhaps today is a good day to get drunk on their sweet catnip blood sacks,” said Magnus.

                Minxelle lay down next to Magnus as he rose to his full eight foot height. He mewed loudly and gathered the Pony Cats together in a loose semi-circle.

                “The Horse Lord Days are upon us again my dear friends. We will go to Briargulch and take as many as we can. We will then scout the lands on the Northern perimeter, even though we did that yesterday and the day before that. We will also take at least one Horse Lord and leave it at the base of Wizard Smoke’s lair. We all know how much that wizard appreciates the dead things we bring him,” said Magnus.

                The Pony Cats all sort of nodded in agreement. Stumperious was staring off toward the ridge-line. There was something up there but maybe it would just come down on its own, or maybe it wouldn’t, but maybe it was tasty.  Stumperious would ignore it for now.  There were Horse Lords to obtain and that would make for a glorious day before a nap and curling up on the sunlit prairie.

                Magnus turned toward the West.

                “PONY CATS, AWAY,” he commanded in his deep velvety voice.  He darted forward as the loyal troops fell in line behind him, unless they were distracted by that shiny thing near the river’s edge.

                Off they went into new and bold adventures.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Scenes From Inside my Head

“So, what are you going write about today,” asked Sami.
“I don’t really know yet. Any suggestions,” I said.

Sami leaned back in her chair and rubbed her little chin like she’d seen so many grown-ups do. She looked around the small hospital room, hoping for some inspiration.

“How about… um… giant fighting laser robots,” suggested Sami.
“I’m not really sure that’s the way I feel like going today. What else,” I asked.

Sami frowned a bit and continued swiveling in her chair. She spun around all the way, daintily scooching with her toes on the stark white tile floor.

“What about a swamp that’s filled with, like, radioactive hands that come to life at night and steal children from the swamp village,” she said.
“You’re really into the whole sci-fi thing today,” I said, “but I don’t know if writing about kidnapping would be all that appropriate.”

Sami nodded and nudged her chair closer to me.  She got up on her little knees in the seat and tucked them under her nightgown. The I.V. drip dangling loosely over the back of the chair.

“Can I tell you a secret,” asked Sami.
“Of course you can,” I said.

Sami looked around the room to make sure there were no other prying ears about.

“Sometimes I like your stories because they’re not so sad. Not like some of the poems. Your stories are pretty fun and, you know, don’t make me feel sad,” whispered Sami.
“Really? That’s very interesting Sami. I like to write those stories too because they are a lot of fun,” I said, “but sometimes you have to use your words to express the troubled feelings that are way down inside yourself. And sometimes those words are sad.”

Sami nodded and sat back in her chair. She straightened out an errant hair from her head and smoothed it back into her pony tail.

“I guess,” said Sami, “But are you sure you don’t feel like writing about big monsters or shadow people or cats? Maybe you could do a story about pony cats!”
                “Pony cats? What are pony cats,” I asked.

                Sami leaned closer to me and looked into my face. She seemed aghast that I didn’t know what pony cats were, even though she had just invented them mere seconds ago.

                “Pony Cats are big horse sized cats that solve mysteries and save princesses and fly and have battle armor and use science and are cuddly and are always ready to give you a ride to the doctor’s or to grandma’s,” said Sami.
                “Wow, they sound pretty amazing. But why don’t you write about them then. You seem to know so much about them,” I said.

                Sami put her little hand on mine and leaned her forehead against mine.

                “I’m not a writer. You are. So you should do it. Pony cats,” she whispered.
                “So I should write about pony cats today then,” I asked.
                “Yes and I will read it and I will love it. As long as you don’t make it depressing,” she said letting go of my hand and spinning her chair back around.

                “Okay, I will see if I can come up with a Pony Cats story,” I said.
                “Good,” said Sami as she started to yawn. 

                A nurse came into the room and shooed Sami back into her bed. There was a little protest from Sami about not being tired and she wanted to stay up but once back into her bed she was calmed and ready to sleep.  

                “Good night,” I said.
                “Good night,” said Sami.

                I left the hospital room and went down to the parking garage. I lit a cigarette in my car and started to cry.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015


We’ve been cultured like
clams, in deep sea beds,
in the hopes we’ll make

Prodded to produce,
pearls of joy, of wisdom,
and of perfection. It’s what
we’re conditioned to do.

We’re farmed, made to choke on
the sandy grains of annoyance and turn
them into some priceless bauble
someone else can claim.

The pearls vary in quality,
in value, in size and weight, in
color and shine. Yet all are collected
for someone else to profit.

Failure to produce a pearl of
joy makes you an outcast, as if
finding or creating joy is just so
very easy; just something we’re to do.

Not creating a pearl of wisdom,
makes you a dunce, a dolt, a dimwit
and the open target of scorn and derision,
to be tossed away with the bad clams.

No pearl of perfection? The hardest of all,
doesn’t come easy for anyone, hardly anyone
at all. Yet, it’s still expected, wanted and
dreamed of as a commodity.

Joy, wisdom, perfection: are the pearls
we’re told to have. We’re told it’s what makes us
desirable, useful and respected, otherwise
there’s no purpose to us at all, what good are we?

Writhing beds of clams, producing cultured
pearls, spitting out the same old market flooding
trinkets, with regularity, with speed, with
dedicated diligence. Clockwork and punch clock.

The natural pearl, unforced, un-coerced,
un-molested, are true rare beauties.
They can be joy, wisdom or
perfection, there’s no blue-print.

Only that they’re pretty, an amazing
paint stroke of nature, a nifty trick of unmeasured
time, growing on a schedule un-monitored
by any clock or eye.

Natural pearls are highly prized and worthy
of awe, it’s why we covet them so,
and force the creation of our own through
the rigors of control and expectation.

The culture of expectation, to be something,
to be something great, to be something greater
than what you started with, to be something greater
than you started with or else.

Maybe that’s why, when we see the
natural pearl, we are so impressed, rapt in
it’s simple beauty of it doing just what it
does, without pressure of expectation.

I get tired of the sea bed, I get tired of
making pearls for others, I get worn out by joy,
wisdom, perfection and time. I just
want to swim, and eventually make my own. 

Monday, November 2, 2015

Almost Always Sometimes

There are always burdens
to bare across your struggling
shoulders, always troubles
to furrow your brow.

There are always people that
will not like you for reasons
you can’t really fathom, maybe
they judge, maybe they’re jealous.

There are always things that pile
up, that stack themselves in places
you weren’t even aware of, in corners,
on tables, in hearts and minds.

There are always muddy traps to
slow you down, make you drag your
feet and strain to pull your heavy legs

There are always dissenters, liars,
mean hearts, bullish bullies, coarse
types, and those that cannot believe
you are anything more than you once were.

There are always beasts lying in wait,
hidden in plain sight, in the eyes of
lovers, family, friends, strangers and
the dreams of unrequited passion.

There are always deniers, the doubters,
the show me the crucifixion wounds,
the non-believers, the unmakers, the
wreckers and the breakers.

They’re always in the way, sometimes
outside, sometimes inside, in your head,
in your own heart, in your words, in the
places you don’t like to go.

And sometimes, they won’t let you
finish a poem on a positive note. 

Friday, October 30, 2015

Not the Haunting you were Expecting

                Steve stepped into the hallway off the bedroom. He yawned and scratched his right butt cheek as he walked. His bare foot stepped forward and slipped in a thick goo on the hardwood floor. Steve fell backwards and landed hard on his lower back in a puddle of greenish-yellow mucus.

                “Ah, what the hell,” he cried out.

                He carefully lifted himself up and turned on the hallway light. The floor was covered with a layer of thick disgusting snot-like slime.

                “What the…,” he said to himself.

                A strange laughter filled the house followed by what sounded like someone throwing up after a long party, which was then followed by more laughter, evil laughter.

                “Honey, are you okay,” asked Steve’s wife from the bedroom.
                “Don’t come out here babe. It’s ah….not…uh…safe…,” said Steve.

                Steve carefully stepped around the thick puddles and made his way downstairs. The living room and dining area were awash in greenish-yellow and brown smeared gunk. There were also empty bottles of beer and Steve’s tequila that he’d won at the bowling raffle two weeks ago was also open and empty. The cabinets were all open and there were Cheesy Snacks spilled all over the counters.

                “Oh Jesus,” said Steve as he moved toward the open kitchen door.  He slipped again in the mess on the floor but stayed on his feet.  He steadied himself in the doorway and blinked in disbelief. At the refrigerator, hovering in front of the open door was a ghost. A ghost right out of the cartoons, a ghost in a white sheet with two black holes for eyes, staggered backwards.

                “You’re… you’re outta, out of, the beer…dick,” slurred the Ghost and it vanished.

                Steve slid back against the kitchen doorframe to the floor. He made the sigh of the Cross across his chest and hugged himself. The relator told him this house had a strange past, but the price was so right he just didn’t even care. It was such a steal.

                “Holy Jesus,” shouted Steve’s wife, Miranda, from the hallway, “What is going on?”
                Steve stood up, steadied himself for his wife’s wrath, and went to the bottom of the stairs.

                “Honey, love of my life. I’m pretty sure our house is…haunted,” said Steve.
                “Haunted, haunted with what? This is just, just so much puke up here,” she said.
                Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. He remembered the Relator’s warning about the old Fraternity that used to rent the house. They got shut down when too many pledges and staff were dying from alcohol poisoning and some sort of hazing with goats. Steven rubbed his chin.

                “How are we going to clean this up, Steve,” shouted Miranda.
                “I’ll take care of it baby. You go ahead and get ready for work. I’ll… I’ll make a few calls,” said Steve.

                Miranda went to the bathroom and felt like she was in that completely illegal scene from Revenge of the Nerds when the Llamba’s broke into the girls dorm and illegally set up video cameras and started filming the female residents like some sort of deranged stalkers.  She couldn’t believe anyone in the 1980’s thought that was okay. It was such a violation of privacy. All those Nerds should have been arrested and sent to prison and then register as sex offenders when they finally were released. She cringed as she toweled off. She could swear she could hear a snicker from somewhere.

                She quickly dressed and headed back downstairs. Steve was trying to use a snow shovel to push the thick mucus off the kitchen floor.

                “I’ll be home by 7:00, all this,”  she pointed around the room “is gone when I come home or we’re leaving and never coming back.”
                “Yes my darling,” said Steve.

                Miranda left the house and couldn’t shake the creepiness of all those ghost eyes probably ogling her naked flesh. She shivered as she pulled the car out of the driveway and went on her way.

                Steve watched her pull away and he dropped the shovel. He got his cell phone and called his friend at the University.

                “It’s here Dave. Full phantasm activity… Yes… all over my damn house… it’s astounding. When can you come by because we only have until seven? Okay, okay…yeah…see you then.”

                Steve hung up the phone and went upstairs to get dressed and to rewind the home surveillance footage for Dave to watch.

                Dave rang the bell a half hour later and Steve jumped when the bell rang. He had been watching the footage of something stumble through his house, knocking things over, clumsily setting them back, throwing up on everything. He was astonished and he knew now for sure that there was an afterlife.

                “Dave, you’re not going to believe this,” said Steve as he brought him upstairs to watch the video.

                Dave pushed his glasses back on his nose as he watched the ghost. The ghost didn’t always have a form, but there was almost always a Pabst Blue Ribbon in its hand, or floating in the air, occasionally spilling a little. There was also footage of the fully formed ghost, just as Steve had seen in the kitchen, just stopping and staring off into nothing, then throwing up giant streams of puke all over.

                “This, we can’t go public with this,” said Dave.
                “What? Why not?!”

                Dave pointed at the screen as the Ghost bumped into an end table and then threw up on it.

                “I’m not attaching my name to the Vomit Ghost,” said Dave.
                “What?! C’mon man, this is definitive proof of life after death,” said Steve.
                “No, it’s proof of a dead frat boy, drunkenly vomiting on everything. That’s not exactly proof of anything other than drunken douche-bags turning into ghosts. Can you imagine the fraternities that would have ghost pledges if this video ever got out?”

                Steve sat back in his chair and thought about it. It was still proof life after death but, what kind of life was it. He looked up at the screen to see the Ghost attempting to light a cigarette on the stove, but then get dizzy, stumble backwards into the cabinet and throw up.

                “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the best proof of life after death,” said Steve.
                “Yeah, let’s just exorcise this joker and we’ll chalk it up to a creepy experience and forget about it,” said Dave.

                Steve nodded and followed Dave going room to room performing a blessing and the Exorcism rights.

                “NooooOOOooooOOO, BrooooOOoooOoo,” said a disembodied voice as they moved around the house.

                Dave and Steve ignored it and continued the blessings until every room was clear. The last they heard of the Vomit Ghost was a very faint, “You suuuuuUUuuuuuUUUccccKKKkkk BroooOOOooo….,” before completely training off and vanishing.  

                “I think Miranda will be happy,” said Dave.
                “Yeah, she might not turn me into a ghost now. So, I’ll see you Tuesday for our meeting,” asked Steve.
                “Yup, see you then,” said Dave.

                Dave left the house and Steve checked each room for any trace of the Vomit Ghost. He didn’t find any more puke puddles or hear any drunken stumbling.  He went to the couch and sat down. He turned on the TV and started watching a Ghost hunting show.

                “Pshht, lame,” said Steve.

                                                   HAPPY HALLOWEEN Dearest readers!


Thursday, October 29, 2015

A Long Walk on a Dark Street

The screams on the wind
swirl through the darkened
neighborhood streets and
corridors of deceit.

Was it a cat?
Was it a cry?
Was it a woman?
Was it a guy?

The hair on your neck is
at attention, you shiver
and shake as you peek
into the moonless night.

Who is there?
Who could it be?
What do you want?
What do you need?

Nothing there, but the
cold wind, rustling the
leaves in the trees, a dying
chorus of awful applause.

Such a noise.
Such a sound.
Such a night.
Such a fright.

A raging wind, angry
with panic, carries more
moans and cries, more
sorrows and pains.

Oh my.
Oh Dear.
Oh heavens.
Oh no.

A pulled up collar and a
bundled coat are no defense
for the chilling, echoing
terrors of a Halloween night. 

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Halloween House Guide

A Jack O’Lantern’s face,
carved with a terrible
sneering leer, quivers
and shimmies from the
backlit flicker of a candle’s

The steps are damp with
the autumn leaf harvest
and a light chilling misty rain
falls. The plastic black cat, locked
in a perpetual scowling hunch,
is the warning.

A skeleton, hung on the door,
hollowed eyes staring vacantly
at the approaching ghouls and
goblins, a toothy yet goofy,
grin on  its bony skull, but
ready to chomp on the cowardly few.

The orange lights, strung about,
casting a golden hue of Fall on the
small cowboys and ballerinas,
minions and monsters, Elsas and
robots.  Each one ready, through their
fear, to shout a familiar phrase said every year.

Night comes quickly and goes
too fast for the seekers of sweets
on All Hallows Eve. Each house is a
challenge, a fright or a bore,
depending on, who comes to the door.
A mommy, a mummy, a monster or Dad,
or no one at all, and that seems bad.

Some houses are scarier than
most, there’s something about them,
that’s evil and morose. Parents avoid them
and babies cry passing by, it’s that
house with the crazies or the one lonely

No tricks, no treats, no decorations to
speak of, just dark and unholy, melancholy
and dismal. It’s broken and tired and left so
alone. But one night a year it fits just right,
as the creepy house on the corner, that’s
somehow always empty but always lit.

Hideous ghosts of the past lurk in
there, creaking the floorboards,
and slamming the doors, they are
envious of your flesh and want it
for their snack. So if I were you,
I’d stay back.

Stick with the carved pumpkin faces,
the jolly psychos and smiling zombies,
the well-lit porches and bowls of candy,
stay clear of the dark house, the one
with the frown, it might swallow you
whole and drag you down.

If you’re brave though, and think it’s all
a fake, there’s nothing to fear, no vampires
to stake. Then by all means go up those
steps, ring the bell and tempt Hell.
You might be the trick, and the treat,
for what dwells inside collecting souls to eat.