Needlepoint

 

Writing poetry in chaotic

times is a delicate sort of

needlepoint. Pull the wrong

thread and the whole thing

could unravel in a knotted

cluster of jumbled loose ends.

 

A tapestry, spun with words,

to express the zeitgeist of

our current times, one wrong

line and the entire image gets

blurred or marred in a blotchy

canard.

 

I know how to sew,

I know how to stitch,

I can thread a needle,

I can follow a pattern,

I’ll fix that tear,

but a weaver I am not.

 

The thread of our lives,

handled by three old crones,

all sharing an eye,

they hold the shears of fate

at our throats as they speculate

on the future.    

 

They never wrote poetry

in troubled times,

they don’t know how the

starting and stopping,

erasing and editing,

of meager and frustrated prose goes.

 

A fair untroubled hand should

hold the needle as it jabs and

pulls through the fabric of life,

a clean sharp point to puncture

through the designs and craft

works of unambiguous art.

 

Writing poetry in chaotic times,

is hard…

boob.

 

Damn it.  

 

Halloween 2024

 

All Hallows Eve,

Halloween,

Samhain,

when the misty veil

between the living

and the dead is

thinned.

 

Ghouls and Ghosts,

may roam the streets,

looking for goodies

and snack to eat,

but it’s memory that

haunts me.

 

All for the sweet, lost Lenore,

in her sepulcher by the shore.

 

No. Just kidding. There’s no Lenore.

But who else should you quote on

Halloween, but Edger Allen Poe?

 

If ever I could write so sweetly

and yet so melancholy, about

the incredible depths of passion

I had for the incredibly mundane.

I would then be a poet of some

renown I’m sure.

 

Halloween is for the children now,

getting treats, wearing costumes,

going trunk to trunk in safely lit

parking lots as local DJ’s play annoying

Halloween novelty songs.

It’s no longer really about the horrors

of Death, a grim reaper curling its boney fingers

around your throat as you struggle against the inevitable.

 

No witches are flying across the Moon,

stealing children for their bones to add

to the eye of newt soup, boiling in a cauldron

back at the coven.  They probably feel bad

because the horrors of the real world completely

usurp the imagined horrors of lore.  

 

Frankenstein’s Monster,

would be a welcome guest at many

tables and be a marvel of medical science,

rather than the soulless, tortured

creature of literature.

He’d be less of a pariah than your

racist Uncle who always ruins Thanksgiving

with his rants about, “those kinds of folks.”

 

In a world of true terrors and horrors,

it’s hard to rectify the enjoyment of

cursed mummies, vampires and spirits,

teasing the living with nightmares and

spine tingles.

 

Nevertheless, Happy Halloween!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

That's Pretty Scary

 

                “There’s a Pumpkin Man standing on the front lawn, Jeffrey,” said Margie. 

                “What’s that you say,” asked Jeffrey. 

                “A Pumpkin Man, he’s  just standing on the front lawn. It looks like he’s waving, or maybe, dancing or something,” said Margie. 

                Jeffery put his mug of hot apple cider down on the near by end table, tossed the cozy fall blanket off his legs and rose from the warmth of the well-worn leather couch. His shadow flickered against the wall of the study as he crossed in front of the crackling fire in the fireplace. He stood next to Margie at the window and separated the blinds. 

                On the lawn, just as Margie had said, was a lumpy looking Pumpkin Man standing on the lawn amid the recently fallen Autumn leaves. He seemed to be doing some sort of primitive dance, raising each stubby arm up elbow high as if he were playing maracas, but slowly and out of sync with any actual tune. 

                “Well, that’s weird,” said Jeffrey, “I wonder if it’s some sort of Halloween thing. Some kids or some goofy neighbor. You remember how weird the Gonzalez's were don’t you honey.” 

                Margie looked out the window again at the oddly shaped being, so orange in the face, the green stem on the top somewhat yellowed rotten and old. It was clad in a wrinkled and ill-fitting suit, just sort of dancing on the lawn to a song it didn’t really know. 

                “I don’t think it’s a Halloween thing. I think it... wants something,” said Margie. 

                “What could it possibly want,” asked Jeffrey as he looked back out the window. He was sad his apple cider was starting to cool rapidly on the end table. He was starting to feel a little annoyed Margie had interrupted him. It was her idea to light the fireplace and have a cozy night under the blanket. 

                “I think it wants our vote,” said Margie. 

                “Our vote? For like, best pumpkin at a State Fair or something,” asked Jeffrey. 

                Margie leaned closer to the window to get another look. Jeffrey sighed and looked longingly at the mug on the end table. He’d added some whiskey when Margie wasn’t looking. 

                “Yes, I see it now. His little leafy hand is holding a Vote for Me for President sign,” said Margie, “It’s a small sign, but it’s holding it, holding it in the weirdest way possible.” 

                “President? President of what, the produce aisle,” asked Jeffrey as he looked out the window again. 

                Margie grabbed at her shoulders and shuddered. “I just got a terrible feeling”, she said. 

                Jeffrey snorted slightly through his nose but they both kept staring at the swaying Pumpkin Man on the lawn. 

                The doorbell rang and both Jeffrey and Margie jumped. The sudden chiming had startled them both. 

                “I’ll get it,” said Jeffrey. But Margie grabbed him by the crook of his right arm and pulled. 

                “Let’s both go to the door,” said Margie. 

                The doorbell chimed again, and Jeffrey and Margie stiffened their backs. They headed toward the front door. Jeffrey flicked on the porch light and peered through the peephole. He could only see someone’s back, their body swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. 

                “Who is it,” questioned Jeffrey through the closed door. 

                “Just a minute of your time if you would sir. We’re just looking to talk to some registered voters and get their opinions on some of the most important issues facing our time,” said a grumbly yet strangely youthful voice from the shadows. 

                “Um, we’re not accepting any callers at this hour,” said Jeffrey as Margie squeezed his arm. 

                “Sir, the fate of our way of life is in serious jeopardy, so we would sincerely like to talk to you about what you can do to make this country great again and save it from the evil within that is rotting it’s soul,” said the voice in the shadows of the front porch. 

                “Um, no thank you. We’re not interested. Thank you,” said Jeffrey. 

                “We’re not going away sir,” said the voice, “You need to stand up for your county sir.” 

                “Are you affiliated with that… thing on the front lawn,” asked Margie. 

                The figure on the front porch paused for a beat. He shifted on his feet and cracked his neck loudly. 

                “Ma’am, that man is the holy savior, given divination by God to save this Country from the rats and liberals that have destroyed the holy Christian fabric of our nation. He is the only one that can save you if you elect him as President,” said the man on the porch. 

                “Um,… this nation was founded by Protestants,” said Margie. 

                There was another long pause from the figure on the porch. 

                “Can I leave some literature with you folks,” asked the figure on the porch. 

                Jeffrey and Margie looked at each other, both shaking their heads. 

                “No. No thank you,” they both said, “Please just be on your way,” added Jeffrey. 

                The figure on the porch shuffled lamely, as if one of it’s legs had been seriously injured at some point in the past. It shuffled and limped into the chilly Autumn night. 

                Margie shuddered again and Jeffrey rubbed her shoulders. 

                “That was extremely weird,” said Jeffrey. He straightened his sweater from where Margie had been holding him tight. He turned from the door and headed back to his now cold apple cider and whisky.  Margie returned to the window and looked outside. 

                She shrieked and stumbled backwards as the Pumpkin Man was now pressed against the glass. It was moaning and mumbling incoherently about tariffs and dealing with the deals that only he can deal with the dealers who do the dealings, tariffs and that he loved women, and enemies, and then it stopped and just stood there, sleeping it seemed, but still dancing. 

                Jeffrey helped Margie up and hugged her tight. He reached out toward the window and quickly whisked the curtains closed. The Pumpkin Man, still mumbling against the glass, slobbering and mixing metaphors with unintelligible ramblings. Until it just stopped, seemingly forgetting what it was doing, until there was no sound at all. 

                “Just a few more weeks darling,” said Jeffrey as he soothed the terrified Margie, “Just a few more weeks and he’ll be gone. Back to the dead zone from which he was spawned.” 

                The fire crackled in the fireplace, the flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.

 

 

               

 

                 

 

 

Sláinte!

 

An Irish Toast,

that I’ve made up today,

for the festivities and

merriment intended to

paint the town Green

from stem to stern,

from port to aft.  

 

An Irish Toast,

said with a smirk,

a wink and a hearty

laugh, that nothing is

serious, except what’s funny.

And anything funny, is

anything we think it is.

 

An Irish Toast,

for those in Heaven,

we can’t raise a glass with;

for those in Hell,

we’ll see you soon,

and for those in limbo,

please pay the tab.

 

An Irish Toast,

for my non-Irish friends,

though you may be few,

you are a lot,

for my Irish friends,

you’re family, for shame.

 

An Irish Toast,

for kisses we get from

our sweethearts,

or our wives and pray

they never meet.

A toast to Love in

all it’s forms.

 

An Irish Toast,

for spillers of drinks,

and those with steady hands

who never spill a drop,

be keen and careful of each other,

for while the drinks may be mixed,

you should not.

 

 An Irish Toast,

for Irish folks,

named Vlad or Sven,

Sangeetha or Miranda,

Jose or Reginold,

Maggie or Indira.

 

An Irish Toast,

from one human heart

to another,

wishing you the kindness

and blessings, good cheer

and love you deserve.

Or at least the one you can afford.

 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

 

Sláinte! 

Interview for a Hero

 

So, what’s your superhero name?

 

“Kid Crunch!”

 

Kid Crunch?

 

“Kid Crunch!!!”

 

That’s…quite a handle.

What’s your superpower?

 

“Crunching!”

 

Crunching?

 

“Crunching!!”

 

I see… so you crunch like,

villains or their stuff, or just

like, stuff in general?

 

“I crunch injustice!”

 

You… you crunch injustice?

 

“Yes!”

 

How, and forgive me for asking,

how does one crunch injustice?

 

“Squats!”

 

Squats? You crunch injustice

with Squats?

 

“Yes! Squats! Cuuuurrunch!!”

 

Is that your, like catchphrase?

 

“Yes!”

 

Okay, great, thanks for coming

in and I guess, you know, we’ll

let you know. Anything you'd like to add?

 

“I was also President once.”

 

Super. Thanks. We’ll be in touch.

Whiz Bang

 

Holy humming and

whizzing in my head,

whirring and clanging,

as the magnets did

what they do

around my brain.

 

An MRI,

two of them actually,

over two days,

to see what it is,

that is causing what it

is.

 

In a small tube,

like a packed cigarette,

huffed and puffed on

for a medical diagnosis

for the hemispheric facial

spasms I’ve had for a while.

 

It’s like a facial tic,

comes and goes,

it's often annoying,

sometimes it’s hardly

there at all,

but I notice it.

 

A twitch in my left cheek,

around my left eye,

across my left upper lip,

a hiccup of a motion,

making me blink,

making me annoyed.

 

I’m just trying to find out

what it might be,

it’s likely nothing but the artery

being too close to the nerve in my cheek,

and with every heartbeat,

the blood pulsing through my arteries,

triggers the nerve and viola,

a twitch.

 

There’s treatment for it

of course, nothing I like,

but a treatment, nonetheless.

Unfortunately the treatment isn’t

wine, women, and song.

But multiple injections

to the face, with Botox,

so yeah.

 

Wine,

Women,

and song,

haven’t really cured

much of anything come to

think about it.

 

Although it certainly beats

the humming and buzzing

and whirring of magnets,

electricity, and mechanics

of modern medicine.

 

At least I know where

to get a kiss.

When I need it.

 

 

 

It Came From Space

 

It came from Space,

landing in a New Jersey farm field,

a tubular spacecraft, devoid of windows

or discernable doors, but emanating

a singular golden yellow glow.

 

The citizens, with mixed feelings,

approached with pitchforks,

torches, Bibles, Geiger counters,

x-ray specs, long sticks, and suspicious

contempt for this newly landed

craft.

 

A rumble at the crash site,

shaking the soil and twitching the

trees, as the spacecraft, opened

a large bay door, spilling more

bright light into the New Jersey night,

the citizens shielded their eyes,

dropping a pitchfork or two.

 

A being, of matter and light,

glowing yet fading, emerged from

the large tube, luminous and flickering,

with gentle waves of mass rolling

across it’s surface. Slender arms and legs,

moved languidly forward from the craft.

 

“What is it,” mumbled Sheriff John, his eyes shimmering in the glow.

“A spaceman,” said Mrs. Carter, breathless with awe.

“Whoa, Whoa, who are you to assign it a gender,” said young Polly.

Polly with hands on hips, a confused, yet accusatory look in the eyes.

 

“Well, I mean, I’m from a different era, they were all called Spacemen then,” said Mrs. Carter.

“I don’t see what authority you have, even if you’re from a different era, to just arbitrarily assign a gender to this being,” said Polly.

“I don’t think Mrs. Carter was trying to incite any disagreement here. Just a…a turn of phrase,” said Sheriff John.

“Um-hm,” nodded Polly.

 

The being stretched its long arms out

over the faces of the gasping crowd,

a benevolence emanated from its kind looking

yet Rorschach face, a feeling of calm

rolled in waves. 

 

“Shoot it,” shouted Jerry Bob, “shoot it because it’s different!”

“Now, now, Jerry Bob, we don’t know why it’s here,” said Sheriff John.

“It’ll make the kids gay,” shouted Jerry Bob.

“I don’t think that’s…,” said Sheriff John, now trying to corral the crowd, but he was shouted down.

“Does it believe in God,” asked one far voice, “is Jesus it’s personal savior?”

“It’s got science stuff, it’s the devil. The Devil I say!”

“Let’s rush it!”

 

Sheriff John looked at Polly for a little help.

Polly shrugged, “They haven’t assigned a gender so… I’ve got nothing.”

 

The outer space being’s glowing skin

began to ripple and change,

like deep sea cuttlefish,

the previous wave of calm seemed to mirror the changes,

the townsfolk turned to each other and

projected their suspicions towards each other.

 

“Johnny Welsh is gay,” shouted Mr. Peabody.

“Hey, I told you that in confidence,” said Johnny, “you said you liked it.”

“Ms. Leigh is a murderer, she killed a kid in college with her car,” said Sam the mechanic.

“Well, Sam records women in the bathroom of the garage,” said Ms. Leigh.

“I lied about having cancer, it was just a rash,” said Sven, “took all that fundraising money and went to Vegas.”

 

Sheriff John shook his head.

“Can we focus on the being from space please,” he asked.

 

Polly pointed at the space being.

“Look, it’s leaving. I think it just gave us a… a middle finger.”

 

“I knew Spacemen were going to be jerks, elitist jerks,” said Jerry Bob.

“Really,” scolded Polly, “Again with that.”

 

The being got back into its tubular spacecraft.

The glowing light ceased, and the vehicle phased in and

out of sight until it was gone, leaving a smoking

crater behind.

 

“Damn it you guys,” said Sheriff John, shaking his head, ripping his hat off his head.

Polly looked at him sharply but didn’t say anything.

 

 

Protest Song

 

In honor and in solidarity

with those participating

in the Writers’ Guild Strike

I would like to submit

this:

 

Banana Legs

 

Igloo Chasing

 

Hot-Dog Heart

 

Manic Subtleness

 

Ah, feels good to add to the

Zeitgeist.

 

 

 

Ba Dum Tssshhh

 

Timing is…

 

Everything.

 

Or so I’m told.

 

So when you see this…

 

 

 

 

poem,

 

 

 

You’ll know that I

 

carefully crafted it

 

to give the impression

 

of the…

 

…passage of time.

 

 

 

So you might…

 

 

…think on it,

 

a little more

 

than…

 

usual.

 

 

…Timing.

 

 

 

(Ta-Dah!)

They Won't Cancel St. Valentine's Day

 

                Cupid looked at his wristwatch anxiously. The bus was already 25 minutes late. He looked down the long straight street for some sign of the bus, but there was just nothing in sight. He pulled at the edges of his diaper and nervously adjusted his “St. Valentine’s Day” sash across his baby sized torso. “This was just irresponsible,” thought Cupid as he tapped his baby foot on the sidewalk.

                  “Why not just fly,” asked a voice from behind Cupid. A disheveled looking man stepped up toward Cupid, “um, you know, because you have, wings, right?” Cupid rolled his eyes.

                 “Hello Dionysus,” sighed Cupid, “You know why I can’t use my wings. They are too small to support my weight here. They only work on Earth and Gamma Hydra Forty-Seven in the Claxar Galaxy,” said Cupid.

                 “Right, right, and you can’t drive because your little baby legs don’t reach the pedals,” said Dionysus as he chuckled. He stumbled forward a little as he tried to regain his bearings. He reached out to the bus stop bench to steady himself. “I almost spilled my wine.”

                 “Yeah. Great,” said Cupid. He looked nervously at his watch again. If he didn’t get on the next bus in the next few minutes, he’d miss his ride to Earth for St. Valentine’s Day. And then no one could meet, and fall in love and make sweet sweet loving.

                 Dionysus sat down on the bench and laughed. He took another swig from is wine skin and wiped his lips with his robes.

                 “Why are you waiting for the bus,” asked Cupid.

                 “Oh, me,” said Dionysus, “I can’t drive be, because, of the thing, the thing with the driving, with my… my license was suspenders, suspended, I mean.”

                 Cupid nodded and took a baby step to his right to move away from Dionysus.  He looked back down the street and there was still no bus in sight.

                 “I don’t think it’s coming,” said Dionysus, “I think that they that hit something. I think they hit, they hit, Sisyphus, or his boulder or both, Ha!”

                 “Is that true? Is that what you heard,” asked Cupid. Cupid felt panic rush though his little baby heart.

                 “I don’t, um, don’t know if that’s what it is, that it is that it’s what it is,” said Dionysus.

                 “What,” asked Cupid, “forget it. I don’t have time.” He took out a tiny cell phone and started frantically trying to find a ChUber.  (Which is of course a Chariot you can call for rides.)

                 “I don’t think you’ll get a ChUber, now, like, it’s almost Valentines Day. They’ll be so busy,” said Dionysus, “but I hope we can hang out like the old, olden, the old days, when you, you get back, because that would be fun.” He fell asleep with his chin on his chest.

                 “Damn it,” said Cupid. “Of all the days…,” He sighed and looked down the street again. A ChUber was two minutes away.

No Bad Luck

 

                Jessie kicked in the front door of the bar. The patrons froze as Jessie stood, arms akimbo, clad in her karate Gi. She wiped her nose with her thumb. 

                “Hey,” said the bartender as he moved around the side of the bar, “you can’t just kick my door in! What the heck is the matter with you!” 

                Jessie moved like lightening and within an instant, the bartender had been flung across the room, crashing into the jukebox; which was ironically playing “Everyone was Kung-Fu Fighting.” The patrons began to scurry toward the back of the small bar as Jessie stepped forward, crunching the broken jukebox glass under her bare feet. 

                “I’m looking for Friday, Friday the Thirteenth,” said Jessie as she scanned the worried faces of the bar patrons. 

                “It’s on Netflix,” said someone from the crowd. Jessie leapt into the air and with a decisive strike, knocked that person through the wall. Plaster dust and cobwebs wafted in the still air. 

                “I’m not here for jokes as you can see. I’m here for vengeance,” said Jessie as she straightened her black belt around her Gi. She wiped her nose with her thumb again. 

                Sitting at the bar, in a long black trench coat and black cowboy hat with a large black crow feather sticking out from the hatband, was Friday the Thirteenth. He was looking at his own reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar. 

                “You lookin’ fer me,” said Friday the Thirteenth. He stood up from his barstool and flicked his drink straw onto the floor and then spit.  

“Heeeeey man,” said the busboy, “I gotta clean that man, c’mon.” 

“Sorry,” shrugged Friday the Thirteenth. 

“You know I have been looking for you,” said Jessie, “for what you did to my brother.” She tugged at the corners of her Gi and took a combat stance. Her fists clenched so tight her knuckles had turned bone white. 

“Okay, listen. I don’t know you. I don’t know your brother. I’m just another day of the week that just happens to coincide with King Philip IV of France arrests of hundreds of the Knights Templar on Friday, October 13, 1307, and then executed them; it does not make me unlucky,” said Friday the Thirteenth. 

“You know it’s more than that,” said Jessie, who readjusted her footing. 

“Don’t come at me with your triskaidekaphobia. That’s all on you Karate Kid Four,” said Friday the Thirteenth. 

“I’m going to pummel your ass,” said Jessie. She lunged forward and swung her leg around Roadhouse style towards Friday the Thirteenth’s head. He ducked as Jessie’s bare foot just barely brushed the crow feather sticking from his hat. 

She laughed as the feather had tickled her foot in just the right spot and she didn’t stick her landing and crashed into a nearby ladder that the bartender had been using to take down Christmas lights earlier.  The patrons in the bar took that opportunity to finish their drinks and run out without paying their bills. 

Jessie shook her head back and forth and quickly stood up and got back into her fighting stance. She slowly circled Friday the Thirteenth, keeping her eyes on his. 

“Seriously, I don’t know what this is about. Did your brother like, get hurt, or God forbid, die or something? I mean, I literally had nothing to do with it,” said Friday the Thirteenth. 

Jessie clenched her teeth as she started to move forward. She Karate chopped Friday the Thirteenth across his chest and he fell backwards into the barstools. 

“Morituri te Salutamus,” shouted Jessie as she rushed towards Friday the Thirteenth. He dove to his left to escape her furious fists. 

“Holy shit lady! What the hell is the matter with you! Those of us who are about to die salute you? Are you really screaming Latin at me right now,” asked Friday the Thirteenth. 

“Confess and maybe I’ll let you live,” said Jessie. She made a fist and cracked her knuckles in Friday the Thirteenth’s face. 

“Sure, sure. I confess. Whatever it is I did I beg your forgiveness,” said Friday the Thirteenth. 

Jessie wiped her nose with her thumb again. In the distance the siren of police cars was starting to wail.  Jessie looked toward the open, broken bar door she had kicked in. She saw the faces of the patrons crowded on the sidewalk who were peeking in. 

“Too many witnesses,” said Jessie, “next time though. Next time you won’t be so lucky.” Jessie ran back through the door and hopped over the hood of police car that had just screeched to a hard stop. 

“I’m the opposite of luck you dummy,” yelled Friday the Thirteenth after Jessie. 

Friday the Thirteenth looked at the wrecked tables and bar around him. He walked over the bartender, who was just recovering from his visit through the jukebox, and extended his hand to help.

 “Just go, just get out,” said the Bartender, “I knew you were going to be trouble the second that black cat crossed in front of you.”

 “Sorry,” said Friday the Thirteenth. He tipped his hat and walked out of the bar, under a ladder, simultaneously stepping on a sidewalk crack.

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

  

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. 

 

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/ 

Alien Language

 

                “Jesus, Frank,” said Palmer as he ducked under the two by four Frank was swinging over his shoulder. “You almost took my damn head off.”

                 “OMG, sorry right. I’m just all kinds of crazy today I guess,” said Frank as he made a cross-eyed expression and stuck his tongue out in the corner of his mouth.

                 “Um, what,” asked Palmer.

                 “Oh, It’s just like, so crazy for me right now. Like, I’m having a total crisis over my cat’s funeral arrangements, even though my cat is like, so far from ever even dying but I like, want to be prepared for the eventuality of it you know. So, I can’t like, decide if Mister Snicker’s should have a little Kitty coffin or like, get cremated or if maybe I should like, get him stuffed or whatever but I think that might be a little creepy, like, in the corner of my room and I KNOW Brad would just be furious with it,” said Frank.

                 “What…what the hell are you talking about Frank,” asked Palmer. Palmer took his hard hat off and rubbed his forehead.

                 “My cat. Mister Snicker. I know I’ve told you about him before silly,” said Frank.

                 “What... what the hell is going on with you,” asked Palmer. “Yesterday you were talking about UFO’s and how aliens are real and they’ve visited you and took you up to their ship and today you’re talking about cat funeral arrangements?”

                 “Oh come on, I’ve talked about Mister Snicker a bunch of times don’t even lie,” said Frank.

                 “You don’t have a cat Frank,” said Palmer.

                 “What are you talking about Palmer, always loved that name by the way, what…, I totally have a cat,” said Frank.

                 “No, you don’t. And who the hell is Brad,” asked Palmer.

                 “Brad? Oh, he’s my little, you know, friend, I guess. I’m not really sure what we are right now, but I think we’re just trying to stay away from labels, because everyone is so into labels right now. We just want to you know, just hang out in our matching kimono’s, drink tea and just, you know be there for each other, like anyone else would, right,” said Frank.

                 “Frank. You were at the gun range two days ago yelling at the guy behind the counter that you’d tear that earring right out of his ear if he looked at you again,” said Palmer.

                 Frank turned his head to the side and stepped up onto the stack of lumber he and Palmer were unloading.  “That’s not true. I didn’t do that. I’d never do that to another human being. Why would you say that, Palmer? Besides, I’m sure he said something rude to me,” asked Frank.

                 “Dude. You totally yelled at him for like, twenty minutes. You even keyed his car in the parking lot.  It was the most homophobic rant I’ve heard this century,” said Palmer, “I was totally embarrassed to even be there with you. I was dreading even having to work with you again.”

                 “What? No. That’s impossible. I would never do that. I don’t think you’re thinking about the right person at all. Are you okay Palmer?” Frank put his wrist on his hip and looked at Palmer.

                 “I’m the one who’s fine,” said Palmer, “you’re the one doing this, insensitive and frankly offensive over the top gay character for some reason, acting like a total weirdo. I mean, twenty minutes ago you told the foreman that you did his mom last night!”

                 “Yeah, I didn’t do that,” said Frank, as he winked and bit his bottom lip.

                 “And stop with the winking! What the hell is going on,” yelled Palmer.

                 “Oh, be quiet. Hush. You’re the one acting like anything I’m doing is at all weird. If anything, I should be offended by how you’re reacting to who I truly am,” said Frank.

                 “Who you are? Who you are!?! I just saw you grab your dick and spit after Shelly the coffee truck girl turned you down for a date, again, no more than ½ an hour ago. If anyone isn’t acting like themselves it’s you,” said Palmer.   

                 “It was all a charade Palmer. A huge silly bad boy façade hiding who I really was inside. It just felt right to finally be who I am,” said Frank.

                 “It was the Aliens. It was those god damn aliens that did this to you. You were right when you were talking about how weird you felt after seeing those UFO’s,” said Palmer.

                 “Okay, now who is being offensive and insensitive mister,” said Frank, “It wasn’t aliens or anything. This is who I really am. I thought if anyone would understand it would be you.”

                 “Me,” asked Palmer.

                 “Well sure, you’re my best friend,” said Frank.

                 “I didn’t know you thought of us as best friends. I mean I mostly can’t stand being around you because of your frankly, scary conservative beliefs and how you behave when we go out to the bar after work or how you always try to hit on my wife,” said Palmer, “So this, is quite a shock to me.”

                 “Jeannie is a doll and I lover her. I don’t want her, I want her to be my friend too,” said Frank.

                 Palmer scratched his scruffy, stubbly chin. He looked at Frank, now sitting cross legged on top of the pile of lumber. Palmer stood there. Frozen in the moment. Completely unsure of what to do.

                 “C’mon silly. This wood isn’t going to unload itself,” said Frank with a sly snicker.

                 Palmer stepped forward and helped Frank lift up a long board from the pile.

                 “You sure it wasn’t aliens,” asked Palmer.

                 “Yes. It was the aliens,” said Frank, “Sheesh.”

                 “And the other stuff you rant about all the time, the pro-life stuff and right-wing political stuff about tearing down the government, that’s just not who you really are? You don’t really believe that,” asked Palmer.

                 “Oh no, I still believe abortion of any kind is murder and those people who perform that sort if indecency should be, like, burned in the town square and have their families thrown into prison. And I do think the last election was like totally stolen from us and White American Red-Blooded Men are clearly the master race, silly,” said Frank.

                 Palmer stopped in his tracks. “What? How can you believe in that stuff still and be, you know, gay?”

                 “I’m gay Palmer, not an idiot. Open your eyes to the living conspiracy that is life in these United States. Pedophiles are eating babies in basements Palmer. Open your eyes,” said Frank.  

                 “I don’t think I can be your friend Frank,” said Palmer.

                 “Because I’m gay,” said Frank as he stopped walking and dropped the board from his shoulder.

                 “No,” Palmer paused, “I can’t be friends with someone who believes in aliens.”