Happy Hall of Ween
Hi, all! Hope your defenses are up and you are ready to fight back against the ghoulies and ghosts on this, the most frightening night of the year. Remember: do not trust the Ghostbusters. AGAB.
It’s been a busy month at Stupid Poetry HQ. “Busy with what?“ you might ask since this is my first newsletter in a minute. “Other stuff!” basically is the answer to that. And I could tell you more about that, but I’d rather show you. That’s right, we’re going photo essay mode today, folks. Look at what I’ve been up to lately, and try to make sense of it, I dare you. And after all the pretty pictures, stick around for, you guessed it, a poem. It’s not explicitly a Halloween poem, but I think it’s got some weird, gnarly stuff going on. It’s probably about trauma and identity or something.
Anyway, happy Halloween from everyone (me) at Stupid Poetry. I‘ll be out there dressed as Mr. Bumpy from the classic 90s’ claymation show, Bump In The Night, which I only know from a VHS I got from the Dollar Tree in 2002. It’s really good though. If you see me, which is pretty unlikely, say hi and give me some socks. Nothing weird, Mr. Bumpy just lives under a bed and likes eating socks. They didn’t have to worry about you foot freaks back then making everything all crazy.
Okay/sorry/bye/here are pictures and poem!
Okay, that’s it. Poem next!
hole in the head
the ghost notes of a railroad spike through the frontal lobe/ i slide my skull onto your keychain/ i am a tragedy you can keep in your back pocket/ i am plastic moss, set in hot glue atop my eyelids/ i see myself hiding/ from a tornado warning in the county fair exhibitors hall, still nauseous/ from the tilt a whirl i rode alone—i see you/ in the bumper cars/i spin and spin and the wind speeds through the void above my eyes/ and for a moment i can see its weight speckling my skin with the blood it’s stolen from me/ you’re looking my direction but all i give you/ is a panicked glance, groans of disembodied/ prayers, photocopies of my detached retina/ i was supposed to make some meaning of this./ that’s why you have to be here, why you have to know/ where i tuck away my obituary clippings, my birth certificate./ every october i try to go home and every october theres too much of it still there/ and too much of it long gone. red, yellow, orange/ leaves nesting, crumbling in a jack o lantern printed trash bag./ mildew, runny nose and the unexplained migraines/ on every sunday drive./ it’s best to engage from a distance./ throw darts through the air that chooses to split/ my head like a cloud. tell me/ what the ridges of these wounds feel like, taste like, to you./ there’s glitter on my teeth and my gums are bleeding./ i’ve always been trying to sparkle myself clean./ i keep making messes of my messes.
