Wednesday, December 28, 2022

Year Books

 


And so there it is.

Another year.

In the Books.

Tied up with a neat bow.

Shoved on a shelf.

Among the Millions

of other years.

 

Another year.

Among so many.

The inside covers,

scribbled with our autographs,

reminding us to “Keep in Touch.”

and other pleasantries.

A yearbook 2022.

 

“See you next year,” is the unfunny refrain,

as we say good-bye to people we’ll

see sooner than later.

A tired old joke,

used for far too long with

similar unamusing results.

Tiresome.

 

Those yearbooks,

gathering dust,

on those million mile

shelves, don’t seem to

teach us anything as they

are rife with mistakes, of

which we never learn from.

 

The ready-made “How to Guides” on

how to behave,

what traps to avoid,

what history has to teach us,

all gathering cosmic dust

along impossible shelves,

in an impossible library.

 

All crammed into another

year, of another year, of

another year, mixed in with a little

another year.

All there.

Ready for the New Year.


Monday, December 12, 2022

The Birds in a Gray Sky


 

The birds flew across

a gray sky,

their dark silhouettes

catching my eye,

against the silvery clouds.

 

Always threatening to snow,

but it doesn’t,

it’s just damp and cold,

sunless days,

as the Ides of December approach.

 

Each night the temps fall,

frosty and chill,

stiff and ridged,

in the swirling,

howling winds.

 

It’s morning,

and I sit in my car,

at a traffic stop light,

as the birds

took flight.  

 

My hands are cold on

the steering wheel,

as the car’s heater slowly

comes to life,

I sigh.

 

The light changes to green,

I roll forward,

feeling some envy, for the birds,

rolling and zipping towards

the Southern sky, for warmer climes.



Tuesday, November 29, 2022

Another Year Older

 


I saw the angels dancing

on the head of the pin

and knew they

weren’t dancing for me.

 

The grains of sand,

dripping silently through

the hourglass,

a miniature desert of seconds.

 

The clock mechanisms,

clicking and whirring behind

the elaborate clock faces,

now chill me.

 

Time, is passing,

hurtling forward,

at a ludicrous pace,

and I can hardly keep up.

 

The blinking perpetual

midnights of unset digital

clocks, mocking in a red strobe

flickering, illuminating the truth of time.

 

Even sitting still,

there’s no stopping time,

quietly breathing, hoping

it’ll just slow down.

 

But it won’t,

not for any begging or pleading,

coercion or cajoling,

it won’t stop.

 

Even when we’re gone,

it’ll persist, filling the hourglass,

the ticking of clocks,

dancing on the head of pin.


Tuesday, November 22, 2022

Thankenstein

 


Deep from the recesses of

Halloween and the American

ego, lumbering forward

on sidewalks of crunchy leaves,

comes, Thankenstein!!!

 

See its menacing eyes!

Hear its garbled gobble!

Chew those weird dry parts!

Wonder at how long it took to cook!

Thankenstein is coming for you!

 

Yes, Thankenstein. The horror

show monster portrayed in movies

and TV as the humble turkey,

primed for family fun and

disconcerting political debate

around an overdressed dining room

table.

 

The reviews are in and nearly everyone

is raving about Thankenstein!

“It’s so moist!”

“The stuffing is impressive, and not

all bread!”

“I think it murdered my uncle.”

“I wanted tacos.”

 

Thankenstein, appearing yearly

in that small break between

Halloween and Christmas.

You remember that?

That weird holiday you had

before putting up the Christmas tree?

 

Thankenstein, manifest destiny

personified as food!

It’s coming for you!

Have your Gravy at the ready!

Don’t be fooled by imitators!

Thankenstein is right behind you!

 

Run, don’t walk to your local

family dinner table, around three o’clock

for some reason, and enjoy the spoils of

Thanksgiving!

Also, remember to be thankful, or whatever.

 


Tuesday, November 15, 2022

Another Time

 


I have a few moments

within the few minutes

I have.

 

To write something

that sounds like I’ve something

worth writing.

 

Within the few seconds

of the seconds I have,

to the second.

 

An epitaph, or eulogy perhaps,

for the thing I wanted to write,

but didn’t have time for.

 

As the time spent here,

is time lost there, and lost time

is gone, regardless.

 

To the words I could’ve

written, if time had allowed,

I say, …

 

 

 

 

 

I guess I didn’t have

anything to really write

after all.

 

 


Thursday, November 10, 2022

Puzzle Piece

 


The puzzle piece,

missing for so long,

tucked away in some

dusty crevasse;

found, in the least

likely way.

 

It had always

been there,

that missing piece,

underfoot and under nose,

out of sight,

out of mind.

 

That part of you,

you thought was gone,

was under the couch,

in that closet,

tucked away in that never

used gym bag.

 

Faded and worn,

but it still fits,

snaps right in place,

completing the picture,

of a carousel?

Wait…?

 

Is it the puzzle piece

you’ve been looking for?

How many puzzles were you

working on?

Like all of us, we’re all

always working on our puzzles.

 

And maybe there’s always

missing pieces;

but that doesn’t distract

from the whole picture,

and all the other special pieces

of you.

 

 


Tuesday, November 8, 2022

God doesn't Vote

 


God doesn’t care if you vote.

Really, God doesn’t.

God isn’t really into Democracy,

or any “governments” really.

That’s just not the sort of

omnipotent being it is.

 

Sure, it could be said that

perhaps the King of England

was appointed by God,

but I’ve always had my doubts

about God’s involvement in Royalty.

Serious Doubts.

 

If God actually cared about

voting, or letting human beings

have a say about anything at

all within this vast universe,

things would be very different.

But God isn’t interested in what we have to say. Really.

 

The Son, though, that guy seemed

really interested in hearing the voices

of the marginalized, the downtrodden,

the misfits and those individuals left

behind or outside the systems of

government they were forced to live under.

 

He was into taking care of the poor,

feeding the hungry, curing the sick,

and pretty much standing up for the little guy.

While I can’t say I know anything for certain about his

political ideology, I’m pretty sure he laid

it all out in The Beatitudes.

 

The Beatitudes, unique to Matthew are

Blessed are the meek,

the merciful,

the pure of heart,

and the peacemakers.

To me, that sounds like a political tenet structure.

 

Which I think we can translate into today’s

more common parlance:

Don’t be a dick,

be nice,

be honest,

and don’t start shit.

 

So voting for people who

reflect those ideals,

might be pretty cool.

But then again, “Voting”

wasn’t in Jesus’ lexicon as

a persecuted person under Roman occupation.

 

I think invoking God,

or Jesus, Allah or Ganesha,

in the Election process,

is just wrong and not

what either Religion

or Democracy had intended.

 

So when you vote,

vote with consideration

and thoughtfulness

about what sort of person

you want representing you

in our Democracy.

 

A gun toting loon who believes

Jesus comes down their Chimney

every Christmas to give him more guns

and that the poor are just poor because

they want to be and don’t work hard enough,

and how God “hates” certain people.

 

Or someone who believes in civil service

for the betterment of our society, Country

and planet, through unbiased Justice,

mercy, compassion, and an open mind

about the potential for excellence

we may present through our charity towards

the meek, the merciful, the pure of heart

and the peacemakers.  

 

Whomever you vote for today,

remember: God doesn’t vote.

Jesus doesn’t vote.

Allah doesn’t vote.

Ganesha might vote though.

But you Vote. 

 

 


Wednesday, November 2, 2022

Hate is a Four-Letter Word

 


I was writing about a man

who hated everything.

He hated the World,

the people, the way time was fleeting,

just everything.

 

And the more I wrote about

this man who hated the world,

I found myself struggling to

relate to his reasoning and

stubbornness.

 

I thought to myself

whether I had, as I recognize

the passing of my own time,

may have softened a little bit,

and the man who hated everything,

was a complete stranger.

 

I just couldn’t get him,

his hatred for it all.

If anything, his hatred,

made me feel sorry for him,

in a way I didn’t think I would.

 

A curious pity took over and

I simply could not relate or recognize

this hateful man.

Personally, I don’t like a lot of things;

things that upset me or ramp up my anxiety,

I don’t think I hate them.

 

I’d much rather be

calm and passively transcendent,

than actively hate things.

It seems like an immense amount of

energy to hate things.

 

And the more I wrote,

the more I hated what I was writing.

Maybe I’m not all that calm and passive

as I thought.

 

I hate that.

 

 

 

 


Friday, October 28, 2022

The Fence

 


                The fence on the hill was overgrown with tall weeds and grass. A chain-link fence, brown with rust in places. The barbed wire along the top edge completely rusted, but no less jagged and dangerous. The fence looked like a cat’s curved spine. An angry cat, ready to pounce.  The surrounding landscape was flat, making this long, high humped fence stand out on the only hill against the morning sunrise. It was beautiful in its stillness and aged security. I started walking along its edge, looking for a way through or over or around. My feet traipsing through the tall weeds and dying grass of Autumn.

                 The night before. The day before even, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the fence at all.  It was just something in the landscape that I didn’t think would ever have anything to do with me. Just a fence. A nondescript fence. Just like so many we’ve all seen before. Just the fence I passed through every morning. Every evening. As I went to and from my work. There was a guard post at the far end where Charlie worked. He sat in that post every day, for years. Getting fatter and fatter, on his high-backed swivel stool. But the fence itself, hardly ever registered with me.

                 I had passed through the fence like I had done every morning for the last three. I drove in past Charlie and gave him my customary nod. He seemed particularly unresponsive to my polite acknowledgment of his position. It was somehow, even ruder. I’m not even sure if he moved at all.  I parked my car in my usual spot.  There were a lot of empty spaces in the lot. Mary McDurring’s car wasn’t in her spot. She was never late or missed a day of work. She was like clockwork. I always thought the Army asked her what time it was since she was so punctual. Not to see her car was a pretty big tip that something might not be right.

                 I walked the short path from the parking lot towards the pit building. That’s where we keep our supplies and uniforms and the general lockers for employees. It’s a huge dingy corrugated steel building. It was probably a Railroad warehouse depot at some point in history as it had a permanent layer of sooty grime all over it. It looked like it could survive anything and most likely had.  I pulled open the pit building door and stepped inside.  The shop foreman was right there at the door, with his back to me. I called out to him, “Frank,” I said. Reaching out towards him.

                 Frank spun around and pointed a shotgun in my face. He started screaming if I was “one of them. Are you one of them?” To which I had to scream back that I wasn’t and had no idea what he was talking about. He kept the shotgun pointed nearly up to my nose as he eyed me up and down from the stock. I had my arms up at shoulder level and looked back in Frank’s direction. “Take it easy man,” I said, “I’m not one of them. I’m one of you, buddy.”

                 The shotgun slowly fell from my nose and towards the floor. Frank turned back around and looked off into the depths of the pit building. “They’re everywhere in here. All over the place. Hundreds of them, I think. They usually come out at night, but they’re out today. Before sunset,” said Frank as he licked his lips frantically.

                 “Who,” I asked.

                 Frank didn’t look away from the far end of the building. As if he was watching for something to come jumping out of the shadows.

                 “The vampires. The damn vampires, man,” said Frank.

                 I couldn’t help but smirk. I didn’t believe in Vampires. It was just a scary story. Propaganda from Romanian folklore.

                 “See,” said Frank. He pointed the shotgun towards his left and I traced the path of his gesture. Trying to get my eyes to adjust to the dim conditions. “I got those two. They went after Mary. She ran off. Don’t know where. They bit her though. Bit her good,” said Frank.

                 On the ground to Frank’s left were two pale, mostly hairless, bodies. They looked almost powder blue in the dim light.  Their ears were long and pointy. They had long talons on their hands. And a Devil tail, poking out of the small of their backs.

                 “Wow,” I said.

                 “Wow? That’s what you say? Wow? C’mon man. Freaking Vampires man,” said Frank.

                 I said I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen vampires before. I really thought they were a myth.

                 “Well, these myths killed most of the second shift. It’s like they went blood lust berserker or some godless thing,” said Frank.

                 “Wow,” I said again. Frank looked at me again over his shoulder. I said I was sorry. He shook his head and returned his attention to the far end of the building.

                 “You see that down there? Those shadows, darting in and out,” asked Frank. I did not see them. I couldn’t see them. I didn’t say anything though.

                 “Those other sons of a bitches, they’re plotting something. I can tell,” said Frank.

                 “Where’s everyone else? The rest of the workers,” I asked.

                 “Dead. They’re all dead. Cut to pieces by these things,” said Frank. He hunched down behind the makeshift redoubt of machine shop tool carts and various pieces of scrap and garbage. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

                 “So, should I like, go the way I came in? I’ll just leave then,” I asked as I started to move back towards the door. Frank grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me down next to him on the ground.

                 “No, no, no, my friend. Now that you’re in here they have your scent. They’ll follow you home and eat you in your bed. That’s what happened to Jimmy. After he left last night. He called me, screaming, saying that there were vampires in his house. You know, he only lives three miles from here. So they followed him home and got him,” said Frank, “That’s why I came with my shotgun today.”

                 I didn’t know Jimmy. He was a third shift guy and I was a second shift guy and we really didn’t interact much. I didn’t say anything though.  Frank was really on edge as it was.

                 “So, what’s the plan then,” I asked.

                 Frank gripped the shotgun in both hands and took a deep breath. He arched his neck back a bit to see around the corner of his temporary shelter, looking back towards the far end.

                 “I think we’re okay for now. They aren’t coming like they were earlier. As people were coming into the building. The vampires were swooping down from the rafters and just plucking people right up off the ground and dragging them back off that way. It was… it was horrible,” said Frank.

                 “Damn,” I said. I looked up at the high ceiling, but I couldn’t really see anything up there. Just corrugated steel and the high metal rafters. Just a normal looking ceiling. I wouldn’t have likely believed Frank about the Vampires, but the two blueish corpses just feet away were hard to ignore. “So, are we just going to stay here? I mean, that doesn’t sound like a good plan. Shouldn’t we go into the sunlight or start making crucifixes or wooden spikes or something,” I asked.

                 Frank was holding the barrel of the shotgun against his cheek, resting his head on it. He seemed sleepy.

                 “I’m just so thirsty,” said Frank, “I just need something to drink. I’m so thirsty.”

                 I took out my lunch box. The nice one I got from my mother two Christmases ago. I got out my Thermos and passed it to Frank. It was filled with Kool-Ade. He took a long sip and then spit it out. Spraying me and everything in the area in red Kool-Ade. “What the hell,” he shouted.

                 I explained that it was Kool-Ade. That I liked Kool-Ade and he didn’t have to drink it if he didn’t like it. He passed my Thermos back to me and wiped the Kool-Ade off his chin. “What are you, frigging Nine-years-old?”

                 “I just like it okay. I think we have more important things to worry about other than my beverage of choice,” I said defensively.

                 Frank wiped at his mouth again. “Shit tastes like, battery acid, or like, shit. Like actual shit,” said Frank. “I can’t drink that. I don’t want to drink that,” said Frank. He looked back down the length of the building, into the shadows. He started mumbling to himself about how thirsty he was. That they made him so thirsty. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to start lusting after my good blood so I grabbed a shovel off the wall and before Frank could turn back around, I hit him as hard as I could along the back of his head. The shovel made a loud “Pang” sound and Frank tumbled to the ground.

                 The Vampires at the end of the building. The ones Frank had been watching in the shadows started to squeal, or maybe laugh. Because it was sort of funny. The noise the shovel made as it connected with Frank’s head. I had to admit. I chuckled a little. “Pang,” I said again.  

                 I heard other shuffling around me, tools dropping with loud metallic thuds onto the concrete floor. I reached over Frank’s body and grabbed his shotgun. I noticed even though I had hit him pretty hard, and hilariously, there wasn’t any blood coming out of the wound on the back of his head. Which I figured meant he didn’t have that much blood left over. I started to wonder if he was a trap. Like bait, and as employees came in, he’d set them up and then let them get eaten or something. I didn’t really know.

                 Some big piece of machinery sounded like it was being dragged across the floor, grumbling loudly. I could feel it in my whole body.  I hoisted the shotgun up onto my shoulder and stood up. I looked into the darkness of the building. It had indeed gotten significantly darker. Some of the larger overhead shop lights were clearly broken creating shafts of darkness throughout the building.

                 “Crap,” I said. I started to back up towards the door. The one I came in through. I no longer believed that Frank was telling me the truth about Jimmy. Whoever that was. I kept backing up, holding the shotgun in front of me. Keeping my eyes on the darkness. I felt my back hit the wall behind me and I started moving towards my right, towards the door. I had to look to my right to make sure it was there. It was. I could see the thin shaft of daylight between the door and the jamb.  I turned my head back towards the darkness. I could hear more squeals, like bats. I slid along the wall until I felt the handle of the door on my back, just above my hip. I reached with my hand that wasn’t on the trigger of the shotgun and flung the door open.

                 A bunch of leaves blew in through the door in a blast of waning Autumn sunlight. I stepped back through the doorway and then turned and slammed it behind me. I leaned against the door. Feeling like I had just run a marathon. The sun was indeed going down. “Damn early sunsets,” I said as I caught my breath.  At least I was outside and could breathe.  I stood up and started walking toward the main office building. I figured there had to be some kind of corporate response. Although I wondered if Corporations actually had fall back plans for Vampiric invasions. I didn’t remember seeing that in the company handbook.

                 I walked across the campus courtyard, towards the main building. It was the nicer part of the property. All well-manicured, watered and mowed.  Along the grass’s edge there were piles of smoldering ashes. Whipped up in the wind. As if a great many people had tried to run through the sunshine and just burnt up, like vampires do.  If we’re to believe TV and movies, but not Twilight. I didn’t read Twilight. My girlfriend did and then we had to go see the movies. And those were just bad. I mean, I actually didn’t hate Kristen Stewart, but the rest, was just not scary or even interesting. At the moment though, I could go for some sparkly vampires that wanted to play baseball, rather than slaughter all my co-workers. Or turn them into Vampires too. Which is what I was guess happed in the campus courtyard.

                 The main building front doors and window glass was all smashed. I didn’t see any bodies though. Which I assumed meant the Vampires carried off their prey to some hidey-hole. They did a pretty good job of covering their tracks. I was a little disappointed that I had missed the fact that there had been vampires all over this place and I never saw them while I was working. Like, how often do you get to see that?

                 I looked up the face of the four-story main building to see if I could see anything or anyone maybe in the windows. I couldn’t see anyone. There had been less cars in the parking lot, but there were on average 300 people on the property a day. So not to see anyone, except Frank, was terrifying. I walked into the lobby of the main building and crunched across the glass on the white tiled floors. The little water fountain feature was still running near the front desk area. It was flowing with blood instead of water but that somehow didn’t seem unnatural considering the situation. The Girl from Ipanema was even playing quietly from the overhead speakers. “Typical,” I said.

                 I moved my way through the lobby towards the elevators. They seemed to be running just as well as Blood Fountain and the Muzak. I stepped into the elevator car and hit the top floor button. “Damn it. I left my Thermos behind,” I said.

          The elevator rode smoothly up to the fourth floor, the executive floors. The doors slid open and I stepped into the hallway. I had the shotgun out in front of me again. I didn’t even know if it was loaded. I never took any shells off Frank’s body so it might be completely useless. “Should have kept the shovel,” I thought.  I crept through the office double glass doors. Which seemed fine and unbroken. The office looked completely normal, other than the total lack of any living souls. There was still coffee steaming in the pot in the break room. There was just silence.  There was a TV in the break room. The sound was off, but the news was on; reporting some kind of world-wide Vampire attack. They came up from holes in the ground and just totally grabbed up tons of people. I turned the volume up slightly.

The terrified looking reporter spoke to the camera as the sound came up, “…cameraman Joe, didn’t make it. He was grabbed and pulled off. I am hiding in a closet. It’s a nightmare come to life outside…,”. The feed went dead, then flickered to a TV studio. The anchor person sat there, trying to listen to the producer in his ear. He wasn’t saying anything, so I turned the sound back down.

 I put the shotgun on one of the break room tables and went over to the coffee. I took one of the Styrofoam cups and poured myself a cup. There was no creamer or milk and I didn’t know where the sugar was. So I just sipped it black. It was pretty good. Better than the machine shop coffee.  I took another sip. The Anchor person was talking again. I turned the volume back up on the TV.

 “…have been informed that if you are watching this or hearing it, to just take shelter where you are and not to leave unless absolutely necessary. There is a military response underway at this time. Please return to your homes or anywhere safe and try to see if you can ride this out…,” said the anchorperson.

 Which was good advice I thought. Just stay put. No reason to risk my neck out there. Plus, it seemed like I was the only one left.  I went over the windows of the break room and looked out towards the flat landscape and that long fence, rimming the perimeter of the property. “What a funny looking fence,” I said as I sipped my coffee.  

 


 


Tuesday, October 25, 2022

Ghost Shop - Ghost Show

 


The billboard proclaimed

everyone should come to see

the brand-new “Ghost Shop – Ghost Show”

on the Avenue of Main at the

stroke of Three.

 

The billboard hadn’t been there

yesterday, you see, decorated

with flashing neon commands for such an affair,

so you dare not miss it,

for the penalties would be despair, it read.

 

There was no sign post or billboard

the day before, nor the day before,

it was just there, suddenly, a bold neon sign,

just along the road, mysteriously appeared,

but no one worried it seemed, except Abby.

 

“A Ghost Shop,” scoffed Abby, with

a shrill sort of snort.

“There’s no such thing as specters or

ghouls, only a way to for a business

to fool people and their money extort.”

 

Thought Abby aloud,

to the crowd,

who booed and hissed

forcing her to kowtow

and shrink back to the shadow.

 

The Avenue of Main, near the stroke of three,

was packed with those people wanting to know,

what was indeed the Ghost Show, at the

Ghost Shop, the billboard had so proudly

proclaimed.

 

Abby snorted, in her shrill sort of way,

“I bet the proprietor is a monster, here to

steal souls and make a clean getaway.”

The crowd hushed her again, saying,

“Go away doubting Abby, you spoil our fun.”

 

The Church bells tolled three loud chimes,

and the doors to the store opened wide,   

plumes and tendrils of smoke wafted out,

the crowd eagerly cried their, “Oooh’s.”

the owner came out with a spooky glide.

 

“Welcome to the Ghost Shop – Ghost Show,” said the gaunt man.

“It’s my pleasure to welcome all you boys and ghouls!”

His boney wrist cracked as it flicked and produced

a bouquet of funeral lilies from up his long sleeve.

To which the crowd applauded, politely it seemed.  

 

A witch cackled and flew down from the sky,

her broom landing between the man and the door,

“Horace, you fool. This shop is cursed,

as I told you before.” Her long finger pointed

at the man’s wrinkled lapel.

 

“Horace,” chuckled Abby, “What a name to have!”

She nudged the ribs of the man next to her

who said, “Ow, that hurt. Please… I’m

trying to watch the show, leave me alone.”

Abby bit her lip and bowed her sad head.

 

“Eunice, you hag, be away with you!” shouted the

gaunt and mysterious proprietor at the

ugly old witch. “I’ve trinkets and treasures

to sell to these good people.”

To which the people cheered and clapped.

 

The witch looked at crowd,

perplexed as to why they cheered so loud.

“No, you see, I’m here to help. This man is no man,

no quiet shopkeeper. He a demon from beyond, a

casual Grim Reaper.”

 

The crowd, whipped up by this new shop,

wanted things and wares from Ghosts and whatnot,

so they threw stones and rocks at the poor woman,

and caused her to flee, but before she left,

she made a decree, “You’re all idiots, except that one.”

 

She pointed at sad Abby, who looked up, “Who me?”

The witch nodded from her broom, “That one there,

she’s the only one not doomed.” With another cackle

the witch clicked her heels and flew up to the sky

out of sight.

 

The billboard was gone the very next day,

the town was in flames and people went away,

except for doubting Abby, who rose above the fray,

to spend a nice evening drinking tea and eating cakes,

with the Witch of the Mountain at Halloween Hall.

 

  


Friday, October 21, 2022

B Side

 


                Brett checked the sound levels in the recording booth and gave the Devil a thumbs up.

                 “It all sounds great Satan. I think it’ll really be a great record,” said Brett into the studio microphone.

                 “You think so? I’m a little unsure about the whole ‘send me your babies, or I’ll give you rabies’, line in the second verse. I think it’s just… bad,” said Satan.

                 Brett lit a cigarette, even though you’re not allowed to smoke in the engineering room. He brushed his long, but thinning hair off his forehead. His fingernails painted black, fingers covered in silvery skull rings and black tattoos.

                 “Satan, baby, it’s playing backwards,” said Brett with a shrug, “I mean, will kids even know how to play a song backwards? Hell, I don’t even think kids have record players or turntables anymore to put your record onto and then spin it backwards, by hand. I just… I just don’t think kids are like, doing that anymore man,” said Brett.

                 “Yeah. That’s true. But I have a five hundred-record deal and I have to live up to my end. I mean, a deal is a deal, right,” asked Satan.

                 “Of course darling, of course. You gotta do what you have to do, but listen mate. What if we did this whole record, in a totally new format, something totally revolutionary, something so completely new that it will have the kids jumping off buildings and dropping their panties like the old days, eh,” said Brett.

                 Satan put down his fire engine red 16 string guitar. He stood up from the recording studio stool, stretched his sheep legs and scratched his hooves on the floor. “Ugh, I have to get back into shape,” he grumbled.

                 “Brett, listen,” said Satan, “I totally want to get into some new formats. Holograms, digital versions of my music, but I have to do it my way and in my time. I mean, U2 already beat me to the forcible download like, so many years ago with Apple. Oh and I love how they keep coming up with “new” phones every ten minutes. It’s awesome really.  But I have a process. And that process involves a very cumbersome listening experience that my true fans have grown to love and obey.”

                 “Satan, lover, I got you. I hear what you are saying,” said Brett.

                 Satan turned and looked at Brett behind the glass of the recording studio.

                 “Did you just call me lover,” asked Satan.

                 “Um, yeah, is that a problem Satan…,” shrugged Brett.

                 “Listen. This is a professional environment and I’d like to keep it that way. So please keep your lusty thoughts to yourself,” said Satan.

                 “Satan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just a goof mate,” said Brett.

                 Satan went back to the stool in the recording studio. He picked up his massive guitar and rested it on his lap.

                 “Brett, I’m sorry but I don’t think this is working out. I think you have a different vision for this album than I do. So… yeah, you’re fired,” said Satan.

                 Brett stood up in the engineering studio, his headphone dropping to the floor, as he backed away from the control consol. “Satan, no, I’m… I’m so sorry. I believe in your vision, I do, I really, really, really, do…,” cried Brett.

                 “Saying ‘really’ three times does not help your case. Thanks for your service. Good-bye,” said Satan as he snapped his fingers.

                 Brett burst into flames and ash and crumbled to the ground in a charred pile.

                 “Send in the next one,” said Satan. He started strumming his guitar, “Send me your babies, I’ll give you rabies…,” he hummed.  “Still not right…, ugh”.

 

 


Tuesday, October 18, 2022

Werewolf Lamentations

 


Another ruined pair

of pants,

another shredded teen-ager

caught beneath my

fingernails.

Another Full Moon. Damn it.

 

I howl and warn at

passers-by in the woods

that I’m out there, prowling

through the mists,

but they just keep coming.

Being loud.

 

Traipsing through my

territory like the dumb

teenagers that they are.

The stacks of teen-ager

corpses should be warning enough,

but the sheriff says it’s unrelated.

 

They think some lunatic

escaped from the local

asylum. When’s the last time

anyone lived by the, “Local Asylum?”

as if they’re just dotted throughout

the rural landscape.

 

I ate those kids,

and ruined my favorite pair

of jeans in the process.

There’s just no getting them

washed or fixed. I should just

go back to wearing sweatpants.

 

I don’t like sweatpants though,

the elastic is good for when I change,

but otherwise, they’re pretty uncomfortable.

Especially when I’m human

and I have a date. Who looks good in

sweatpants on a date?

 

I mean I eat her either way,

but still, I want to look nice before I

devour her. I mean, I’m not a monster.

I’m just a werewolf.

I’m just a man.

Sort of. 



 


Friday, October 14, 2022

Ghost Toasties

 


The Ghosts and Ghouls

will get you,

if you let them,

but they’ll probably

get you anyway.

 

They can go through walls,

and find you in any

little nook or cranny

in which you try to hide.

They’re clever that way.

 

They “Boo” and “Hiss”,

and twist your stomach

into knots, they jump

out at you around corners,

and turn a smile into a frown.

 

The scratching noise on the walls,

deep into the night, isn’t

that tree branch that’s just a

little to long. It’s them.

The Ghouls, digging after you.

 

The Ghosts, moaning, rattling

their chains, as they stalk you

across every creaking floor board

and tired house joist.

Keeping you from finding sleep.

 

They want you to know,

that they know what scares you,

and they will churn your nightmares

into butter that they can spread on their

dark breakfast bagel.

 

Which you can order at any IHop

I think. Although it comes with cream

cheese rather than nightmare butter,

but still, it’s chilling.

So satisfying, it’s spooky.

 

Is anything scarier than

advertising?

I’m startled to say the least.  


__________________________________________________________________________

Picture from: ---- https://bellyfull.net/ghost-toast/ 

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Tap-Dancing Hells

 


There’s a bumbling shadow

flashing across my moonlit bedroom walls,

a lanky fellow, in a top

hat and tails, tap-dancing;

badly.

 

He’s quite thin,

toothpick arms and legs,

but thick in the middle,

a distended belly of

sorts, shadily protruding.

 

I only sort of catch him,

if I’m glancing that way,

he may be a bad dancer, but he’s

quick on his feet and flees

my quick gazes.

 

I think he twirls a thin

cane too, but he’s too quick

to see all that well, plus he’s

a shadow, which are typically

poorly defined, as shadows go.

 

I think I saw him eating

a sandwich once,

a comically large sandwich,

even with the olive pinned

to the top slice of bread.

 

I guess all that bad dancing

must keep him thin, and yet

he can’t follow a beat and doesn’t

seem to understand rhythm.

It’s amazing, and terrifying.

 

There he is,

in my bedroom, leaping from

dresser to dresser as if he were

Gene Kelly, but never went to art school,

a black mass, step-ball changing through the night.

 

He’s haunting me,

he’s so undefined,

is he a ghost; or is it

just my mind, in the low light

of night;

 

Playing tricks on me,

while black cats whine and

cold winds blow autumn leaves,

scratching and scraping like long claws on

the cold sidewalks.

 

It’s scary to see him,

it’s unnerving that he might

be there, behind me,

in front of me, always there.

As I pull the bed covers up to my eyes.

 

A horror of wondering;

what if I’m him,

or even worse,

what if,

he’s,

me?