Sitting reserved,
preserved for the night of hallows rising.
It’s not surprising some choose to abuse
the sacred traditions of this unholy night.
The sights expressed are those of October’s ending.
It is sending its message early.
Living brain cells need not apply.
This is for the pumpkin headed guy
who trampled these hearty mums,
to get to those windows
to scrawl that message in soap
(God, I hope It’s soap).
Besides, who taught you how to spell?
And you whorish ghouls with your filthy little mouths
expressing yourselves in four-lettered expletives
well within earshot of granny and three of the seven dwarves.
Do you even speak the language?
So much for the Queen’s English.
It’s open season, a license to thrill your abhorrent banality.
There’s shrill finality to October. Some call it All Souls Day.
That is, if you can escape getting carved up
and having a candle shoved up your ass to enlighten you.
It is only then that your sorry soul can pass into November
as we give thanks that we only have to endure these rituals once a year.


Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness
of a weary mind. There is no rest there.
Cursing the single candle lit to offer
its illumination; to infiltrate this
mental stagnation. Accursed slumber
why do you wage against my will?
Will you release me like the leaves
of October’s colorful flurry, left
to scatter in the cool winds from place
to place; a migration to discover the peace
that I crave. You have found me, October.
You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion,
a saving assist for one clamoring for control
over heart and soul,
over heart and mind.
I clutch your hand as I am flung over
the edge of reason. Your season is here.
You want me near, October, where I belong.
Anything else would be just wrong.