BootShopStory

to a perfectly good,
nice person, & you
couldn't think of anything
nicer to do, to a
perfectly nice person,
this is when the
city goes down,
the lightning struck,
this animating inanimate
cultures tombs & resting
stones, elevating the
metal platforms of
science, with the dead
in hand & therefore holding
hands together, like
children leaving elementary
school together,
marvel mindless
man, at impervious
natures view of
elementary school &
the re-animated dead,
the skull & cross
bone ship, sailed
it's pool  of dead
stars, cosmic wishing stars
like broken wishbones, crashing into skulls.

the witch of hazel wood,
a dark-green witch,
like a green
shadow in the sunlight,
appearing in the depression
of the exhilaration of the
utterly lost,
so that a rich, dark,
blackish greenness about
the tree's, in the cadaverous
defiance, in threadbare
blotch-work, conceals
her in the olive, grey
rags of terrible, emaciated,
uncouth, & frightening
banished, horror of
a hundred questions, her figure hides
in this, & from this figure,
her voice barely audible,
as though
that of a voice in peculiar
however not sounded in
quite awhile,
a voice to catch in
the throat the famished,
she glitters to ask
what brought you.
(& then gone, like the sound of water)

the moon heart in the
sky, it has taken the
sky again, again it takes
the sky, as a witch might
take up her trusted broom
to fly, so just before
midnight resting in it's tree,
as the spider rested in
it's lamp lit nook in the
porch, & a rabbit & deer
came out from where the
dark green bushes, in
the moonlight recede,
yes, the moon heart, ghostly
& light, landed in the
tree, on probably the
same evening, or night,
presumably against all
machine driven forms of
kingdom come,
& crossed the
next day, the world
itself looking very
much friendly, was not opposed
to that in anyway, & by
the klink of Halloween & Christmas
this thought true, snow falling in the
cemetery.

to & fro, to & for in a
way quite horrible in so
old & stunted,
in it's reflection, where
reflected the incapacitating
of an army, just before
Heaven, or Hell, Christmas, or Halloween,
another commercial appeared,
like an abstract of itself in
a picture frame,
to the clank of boulder done
for it's place to make a score of
hearts echo,
the rival colony ever on the
march, to the televised world,
sent to the neitherworld on a
resounding journey,
in the wreckage of the ancient's
face, & planet,
life fainter as it approached the
eating room,
endless, interwoven  & numberless,
& worked into the main arteries of
silence, to a trick, it was more
eloquent fanaticism, like shooting stars,
malice through veils of water,
it may be so damnably bold,
to not have the commercial
world, a must do, like a fallen sail,
examine it's terrain for irregularities,
bless my spherical soul,
until life itself come alongside,
the old, pale lion,
& like a Halloween card, the
tree of the dead watching, signs
o

will it forever, in a way
quite so horrible, in so old
a midnight window way,
that the embodiment of
the commercial, the
funnel of a crooked funnel,
reverberating well to it's
best commercial preliminary,
or faint as a shooting star,
as a yawning window,
show in the wreckage of the
ancient's face,
how macabre Halloween
by way of this, one day
does this fear from shadow
to light, lose all falling
trace of it's show & veil,
a ghost was just looking
through the window from
another time,
the television was off
& like a dream the thought
had occurred as from
it's own time, &
then the leaves, for
days & days began to fall.

sham dignity had
spoilt the day completely,
as though it were the fissure
in the wall, where the darkness
of the day & age ever
came from,
enlightening all invitation
into wild flight's of stone,
turning the world into it's
crumbling chamber beyond,
an invitation to a world
of it's own amusement,
& in it's shadow of
self, opened like the
mouth of a sepulchre,
bowing slightly to the corpse,
but this was no dream,
sham dignity had spoilt the
day completely,
for the black shapeless thing,
moving all mastery of awareness,
closer to it's own sense of
unholy silence, truly a part of
disjointed horror, ever there before
Halloween, not so much a darkness
in itself, as something starved
for sunbeams, like Vampire asleep in it's coffin.

it is for Halloween to
always cast it's ancestral
spell, along all of October's
vistas,
it's only challenge as a
holiday, to create a fresher
atmosphere of the nightmare,
after trick or treat & holiday
chore & cheer,
October & Halloween,
have come to paint
the actual world, with
costume & film, to
the point of the disturbed,
to a place that is clear,
always, it's only challenge
casting an ancestral
spell to trick or treat,
a ritual to lively happiness,
& horror out of something
tameless,
from hungered to refreshing,
of mutinous sensations,
to the spirit of instantaneous,
a thronging moment, to
give way to holiday cheer.

the spirit of the evening,
on this particular night,
for reading what I
have written, as it
were in a trance,
it is a thought to
give natural phenomena,
we shall all be guests,
at Halloween Night,
trick or treat,
& we shall all do the
right thing, trick or treat,
trick or treat,
a moment of traditional
observation thus arrived,
I wish I was going
alone,
In a dawn of doom
where blooms the rose
for the tomb,
the scythe & the thorn
in wait, all this
trick or treat, the decorated
house, a ghost, a ghost,
trick or treat it is
Halloween Night.