let us travel
through the night
on darkened roads
by dying light

let us see
the shades of life
as painted by
the butcher’s knife

let us learn
how in the dark
all that we see
bears our own mark.

October Feast

The willows weep and whip the air –
the werewolves skulk to the affair,
scarecrows creep down from their posts
and subtly fix their ragged coats.
The draculas, the frankensteins
don lovely masks and sip their wines,
the grist of flesh brings ghosts and ghouls
and spring-heeled Jack and other fools
show up to dance and jump and sing
and drink and laugh or have a fling
with succubi or vampire’s bride
somewhere beyond the fireside.

But the devil stalks the sum of it
and whate’er is passed, he takes a hit,
and grins and jokes and drinks his fill
or feasts on burgers from the grill
until the hour waxes long
and the party ceases going strong:
the mummy slumbers on the floor
and couples file through the door
muttered love from fiend to freak
and tomorrow,
the world returns to the meek.

Werewolves at Midnight

Foam burbling on our teeth,
curses lingering on the earth,
we wag our tails and preen
we see and are unseen.
Oh, find me the next kill!
Feast on flesh,
fresh with thrill.
Flush away the pills,
Stay awake all night,
Keep the fangs, keep the –
Oh whatever god will listen –
Keep us in your graces,
keep us in your graces,
Until we awake,
human in the light of day.


You are now aware of your eyelashes,
long, graceful, and gently
pulling away from your eyelid.

You are now aware of the last time
one shed,
like a dead branch from a tall tree,
and landed,
on the surface of your vision.

when the lights are off
and the full moon gazes,
through your window,
you will wake with a sudden start –
a pain in your eye,
something sharp,
something rough,
an eyelash that is not your own.

Halloween (2019, #1)

they are knocking on my windows,
men with thin fingers and
the appetites of wolves.
Their breath fogs the glass,
stinks through the windowpane:
abandoned barns full of
hollowed cattle,
skin turned brittle,
the too-sweet smell of
rotten grain.
They are thin as shadows,
their fingers work through the storm-guards,
sliding easily into the room.
they are standing and
watching me sleep,
these men with thin fingers
and the appetites of wolves.