Monday, October 17, 2016


This is how the wind blows most 
October afternoons, now

that you're old enough 
to really be properly 

scared of all of those creeping
things of this world 

which are neither 
scarce nor sacred, those shades

that cast nauseatingly 
typical shadows, 

those mundane wraiths
which are so 

overworked and
underfed they've grown stupid—

a thousand thousand thousand 
insistent iterations 

of the same unimportant
brown autumn leaf 

that go scuttling past your sneakers
like failed and abandoned 

kites in stilted currents;
the drowsy zombie

bumble bees 
tickling your hair like bats

rising blind from their cells 
in hell,

not to riot, but quietly
squeak of prosaic dangers

(not enough cash-flow, too much 
fat in your diet, et cetera);

and finally, from endless porches, 
the sallow leer 

of prototypical
jack o' lanterns penetrating, 

making you feel
hollow inside, 

guilty—for all the time 
you spend thinking 

about the immaterial 
words of dead poets, 

instead of trying
to picture—all your disgruntled still-

relatives' faces.