Every Day Halloween

 

All Hallows Eve,

Halloween,

Hungry Ghost Festival,

Tuesday.

 

Snow on our Halloween,

in the Midwest;

or perhaps tiny Trick-or-Treaters,

dressed like snowflakes, no two are alike.

 

Powdered sugar perhaps,

to sweeten the grimness

that has recently prevailed

for so many.

 

The day before All Saints Day,

in which there is likely a long

list of Saints, Saints in waiting

and your classic well-known Saint types.

 

All Saints asking for candy,

door to door,

dressed as Princesses, goblins,

demons, and non-canonical lore.

 

The typical creeping gloom,

of an Autumnal rite of passage,

seems less dreary, when every day,

seems to unleash Halloween horrors, somewhere.

 

The killer at the Summer Camp,

nothing,

the killer in the attic,

a chump.

 

It seems, as of late,

that every day is Halloween,

followed by mourning,

for the fallen Saints.

 

Ding-Dong,

Trick-or-Treat,

here’s a full-sized candy bar,

to dull the impending doom.

 

Happy Halloween!!

October Magic

 

                Harlan held the Witch’s Rune stone up towards the Moon. He squinted in the dim light trying to make sure the full Moon was precisely centered in the small stone. The Witch told him that he had to be in the woods, at this exact spot, at this exact time, holding the rune stone up to the moon, making sure it was perfectly centered in the little hole in the stone and then all his wishes would be granted. His arm was getting tired, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of all his wildest fantasies from coming true. It was the price he had to pay, that and his everlasting soul or whatever.   He started chanting the magic words the Witch taught him. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ko…,” he chanted.   

                The Witch had a small shop on 9^th Street where she told fortunes, read tea leaves, re-soled your shoes, did a little laundry (with magic Harlan assumed), and put curses on woman that rejected potential suitors. She also would let you touch one of her breasts, but that was always an extra fee and Harlan would not stoop to such low levels of depravity. Not with a Witch anyway.   

                Harlan had gone to the Witch many times over the years; when he was being bullied in High School, or when he was being bullied at the Movie theater, or when he was being bullied at the Auto Parts Store, or when he was feeling bad about himself for all the excessive masturbation. She always knew what to do for him and how to give him the right potion or concoction to free him from the curses of others and his own thoughts. She was always very reasonable with her prices too. Which Harlan respected. He’d tried VooDoo with a “Doctor” but all he got was very drunk on Rum, an empty wallet and, a pin in his butt. 

                So Harlan was all about the Witch. He did everything she directed him to do, and his life had never been so good. He was never late on his car payments anymore and his skin had really kind of sort of started to clear up, except for the rash, which he kept applying the cat grease to as directed, but it didn’t seem to be getting better, but he had faith in the Witch.  She hadn’t steered him wrong yet. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke…,” continued Harlan. The Moon was slowly moving across the sky and Harlan’s arm was getting really sore form holding the stone up so high. He wished he could lean against a tree or something, but the Witch was very serious about standing inside the protected circle of random leaves. Otherwise the consequences would be dire, she had told him. Harlan wanted nothing to do with dire consequences. He didn’t even like regular consequences. 

                A night owl hooted as it flew overhead. Harlan could hear some cracking of sticks and crunching of leaves through the trees, and he felt a shiver run down the back of his legs. He dared not look away from the Rune Stone Moonstone thing that cost him thirty bucks though.  He needed his wish to come true. He needed Nancy to stop ignoring him and just start being his girlfriend already. He’d sent her all the signs and posted so many notes to the window of her car and she just needed to realize that he was the man for her. Not Brian. Her husband. He was not a cool guy. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke,” said Harlan as loud as he could. All while feeling his arm shake with exhaustion and muscle pain.  He was having a hard time keeping the stone centered on the Moon. But then, he couldn’t remember how long he was supposed to hold the Moonstone Rune in place. Maybe he did it long enough. He couldn’t remember what the Witch had said about how long to hold it up for since she had opened her shirt and asked him if he wanted a touch for $20. 

                Harlan didn’t have any more money, so he told her No Thank You.

                A cloud moved across the face of the Moon, dimming it and casting Harlan into further wooded darkness. He decided the cloud cover was a sign that his chant had been successful, and he lowered his arm. He stood there, gently massaging his sore arm, imagining Nancy waiting for him at his apartment door, dressed in the Halloween costume from three years ago, that showed a lot of leg and cleavage. He was excited by this absolutely sure thing that was going to happen, thanks to magic and the Witch. He just knew it had worked. 

                He wiped his dripping nose as it had started to get cold. It was nearing three in the morning, and he had to trudge his way back towards his car parked over on Route 23; or was it Route 25? He could see his breath in the cold October air. He paused, trying to remember which direction he had walked to the clearing from. He got turned around using his flashlight trying to find the circle of random leaves. He looked up at the near starless sky assuming he could simply navigate by the stars. How hard could it be? 

                There was a crunching sound coming from the thick brush to Harlan’s left and he quickly flicked the flashlight beam in that direction. He swore he heard a child laugh.  Nothing was there though. 

                “Pssht… typical scary movie trope,” said Harlan, “I’m not scared. I’m protected by a powerful Witch!” 

                A cold wind swirled around Harland, blowing a small tornado of leaves around him. He felt something brush the back of his neck and he jumped, screeching like a startled pig. 

                “I’m not scared. I’m NOT scared,” said Harlan as he waved his flashlight back and forth through the pitch blackness of the woods. He was panting and felt a gurgle in his stomach. He wished he hadn’t eaten all those oysters at that little shack he stopped at while driving here. He knew it didn’t smell right, but the waitress was pretty. 

                A thud in front of Harlan, sounding like a large tree branch crashing to the ground. Harlan squealed again and turned to run. He farted in fear and grabbed for the back of his pants, fearing something worse. He was bent over and running awkwardly, like a gazelle with mis-matched sized legs, and he stumbled and fell face first into a giant rock. He hit his forehead hard, and he saw a bright flash and brilliantly lit holes poking through his field of vision. He screamed and rolled onto his side, clutching his head. He moaned. He sat up and turned his flashlight towards the rock he tripped on. 

                “Oh no…,” said Harlan before he fell into unconsciousness. 

                His flashlight fell, still illuminating the rock, which had the matching markings of the Rune stone in his pocket. The woods were silent.

 

 

To Be Spilled

 

Blood as currency,

to pay for the impossible,

unlikely and incomprehensible,

never enough, a lousy

down payment on an

unscrupulous future.

 

Never enough,

blood,

to satiate the leeches,

that need to feed,

on innocence and

on corruption without distinction.

 

Blood,

spattered and sprayed,

in Pollock-like pictures of

carnage and misery,

mixed in the mud of

history, legacies of blood.

 

Bloody ideologies,

soaked in gore,

heartache and

the great mystery,

of why we kill our brothers,

over nothing.

 

Sand.

Dirt.

Grass.

Stone.

A layer of blood

between each.

 

The geology of

death,

for the ideology

of death.

Surrounded by oceans

of tears.

 

So much blood,

for so much nothing,

over and over again,

winning nothing,

but more blood,

to be spilled.

The Good

 

The Good,

has been hard to

see lately.  You have to squint

your eyes to make sure

it is there.

 

It comes into focus

like some Magic Picture,

barely discernable from

the dizzying dots across

the image.

 

The Good,

buried under rubble,

covered in darkness and

dirt, lost in the backdrop

of horrors.

 

The darkness in the

hearts of men,

makes my heart heavy,

with agonizing grief,

looking for the Good.

 

It is there though,

slightly ignored,

corrupted to mean different

things to different people,

rather than a moral Good.

 

The Absolute Good,

the unquestionable Good,

children’s happy laughter

or a rainbow after heavy rains,

the Good in life and nature.

 

Obscured in murky black

spiral smoke of fires and

twisted in hateful speech,

The Good, begging, searching

for its place.

 

I hope we can find it

soon.  And feel the warm sun on

our sickly faces.

And see The Good, Be the Good,

I know we can be.

 

The Distance Between My Ears

 

The distance between my ears,

is sometimes a great chasm of

bottomless terror,

or a happy little skip over a

simple crack in the sidewalk.

 

There’s a lot going on in that

space between my ears,

fireworks of furious capacity,

melded with dribbling brooks of thought

over rocky riverbeds.

 

Civilizations of imagination rise and fall,

between my ears, under my

scalp, below my hair,

growing and dying,

in minutes.

 

Timelines,

playing out in my own

self-contained Universe,

amid the actual Universe,

whose seconds count for nothing.

 

Fears, joys, lusts, loves,

lies, prides, satisfactions,

dissatisfactions, annoyances,

anxieties, all jostling; elbow to elbow,

ear to ear, as it were, in that space.

 

I enjoy this personal space,

between my ears,

it’s a wonderland of impossibilities

and irrationalities, of simplicity

and complication, memory, and regret.

 

The lumpy, wrinkled space between

my ears, is me. It’s where I am.

Where everything that is me resides.

Except for now, when I’m in your

space, between your ears.

 

You might want to dust in here.