Happy Halloween! One Last Poem

The Wounded Man

The night was cold. Steam rose in little curls
From his many wounds. He walked along
The side of a highway, praying some old
Trucker would stop for him, see his wounds,
And realize his obligation to a wounded man.

But no trucks came. Nobody came. It was late
And the world was asleep. A soupy fog hovered
Above the ground, close but not quite touching.
The farther he walked, the more the wounded man
Thought about the ocean, his skin clammier, chewier,
More squid-like with each passing mile.

He didn’t blame anybody, though. He’d asked for this.
He’d asked to go to war, to run with the monsters
And feel the moonlight on his face while he wounded
Other men and watched steam rise from their wounds.
What he didn’t like (if he could be said to still have opinions,
In his condition) was that it was his luck to be the last man
Standing, chosen to die alone on some godforsaken road.

But he kept walking. And walking. Because the wounded man
Knew that the next time he laid down the hovering fog would
Grasp him in its hand and carry him off to a darker night.

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Two More Halloween Poems


We found you among the deadwood that collected
In the river’s crook. Beavers stood over your body like
Kiddy crossing guards fattened for slaughter.

They did not want to give you up. Apparently
Your body’s newfound stiffness fooled them
Into thinking you were driftwood, also;
That you belonged to them.

We absorbed the scene awhile, pondering,
Then went back home without you.
Who the hell were we
To argue with beavers?

The Pumpkin Fucker

O, how I like to fuck pumpkins!
How tantalizing it is to carve a hole
And know it waits only for you!
How round and cool they are on the outside
Yet all yielding, stringy delight within!

A man could find true happiness in
A ripening pumpkin patch, ass up
In all that sweet orange melon.

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Three Halloween Poems I Have Dashed Off

The Fire

I stoked the fire
Until the wood turned blue
And it was hot enough for you.

The Beastie

Spiky furred, razor teeth clacking like typewriter keys
You rolled through the old forest through the dense briars
Under the dead leaves over the hollow skulls
Searching for drowsy prey fat from its own conquests.

You’d appeared in the forest centuries ago.
Different from any other earthly creature,
You were the unwelcomed wickedness
The forest had dreamt up.

Because life in the woods isn’t hard enough,
I guess. Not desperate not clawing not howling enough.
No. Even in the most desolate backwoods,
I suppose the Devil will have his say.

The Skull

Nothing but bone without a face
Without skin, without the warm
Mask of blood.

The skull lies abandoned in a clearing
Staring up at the bright stars
It cannot see.
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