The Ides of October

"Halloween is my favorite holiday," Candace said, the wind picking up and making us huddle in our sweatshirts. We sat on the front porch as the sun was going down, torching everything in the golden rose fire of dying light. I could agree or disagree with her, but said nothing, taking a slug from a brown bottle turning clearer by the second. A black label with a common name written on it, Jack Daniels, sounding innocent, even average, veiled the shotgun kick that it carries, something a person won't ever forget.

I put the bottle down as a gang of ghosts, ghouls monsters and movie stars, led by a rubber-faced George W. Bush wandered up to the porch. "Trick or Treat!"

They get the treat, a hand full of candy each. They wandered to the next house as quickly as they came, leaving us to see about any tricks the night might have in store.

"What's your favorite holiday?" Candace asked, as she picked up the bottle from between us and tilted it back for one, two, three seconds.

"The Ides of March."

She put the bottle down with a heavy glass clunk on the concrete porch. "Nick, I meant a real holiday," she said, her lips pursing from the burn she tried to hide the effects of--and failed silently.

"Halloween's not a real holiday," I said, pulling the hood on my sweatshirt up to cover my recently shorn head in the falling temperature. She said it is. "What's so holy about it?" I was swimming in my own skull fish bowl, yet I took up the squared glass bottle to take another pull of the whiskey. Nothing holy about today, I thought as the burn assaulted my body like acid. I shivered and smiled and almost dropped the glass flask. Careful!

"Because it's for the kids; you get to be anything you want, just for a night. And get rewarded for it. I love that."

"You can be anything you want, any time you want," I said "it doesn't take a special day for that to be the case." More kids wandered up. A Jedi sister and her Darth Maul little brother. "Trick or Treat!"

"Blahhh!" I said as I picked up the candy bowl and dumped an amount into their bags that would have made their dentist blanch. They screamed in delight and ran to the next porch. Candace picked up the thread after first one surreptitious sip, then a longer pull from the bottle. It was dwindling. We were stewing in the sauce pretty good, I think. "Well, why don't you like it?" She asked me leaning close then tilting back.

"I never said I didn't like it. I only think it's not a holy day. It's kind of unholy." More kids, more 'blahhs!' and more candy dumped by the clump. The winds had blown a rain in, and it was cold, starting to soak into our clothes. We went back inside to refill the candy dish, but couldn't find the candy.

"When was the last time you went trick or treating?" she asked me as I closed a cabinet door rather abjectly. It swung back open. God bless American craftsmanship.

"I don't know, when I was like fifteen, maybe?" I grabbed the top of our old brown and tan couch. "How about you?"

She had been sitting on the couch but stood up with a little help from the coffee table. "I went two years ago."

"What?" She's twenty nine, so that would make her twenty seven. "Only women would be aloud to trick or treat into their twenties," I was as incredulous as a drunk person could be. "I'd get chased off with a gun! " I took one more small sip from the bottle, passed it to Candace and she finished the rest of it. Jack was no more. God rest Jack Daniels, a country gent, died before his time, boots on and in a strange land.

"Lets go right now, I have my Cleopatra costume from last year," she said, dropping the bottle on the couch. "Come on, mister, you're not too old for this, you never are, you can't be. Unless you're dead." She stumbled to the bedroom. When in Rome, I guess. When in Rome and your girlfriend is playing Cleopatra for the day. At least I had an idea of what to be.

We undressed and somehow kept from fooling around, even in our drunken, not-so-sensible state. The sun was almost down by the time we dressed. I put on some basketball shorts, but draped a white bed sheet across one shoulder, and Candace safety pinned it at my hip in a short robe that fell to my knees. I had no sandals, so my biker boots would have to do. She topped me off with a laurel crown. I asked her where she got it from. She said that Cleopatra hadn't been alone at last year's party, and smirked as she put a new, black lace bra on and clasped it in front. I started to ask about the plastic leaf crown, but figured I really only met her six months earlier. The past is the past. I'm in it for the now. I was amazed at my clarity of thought, considering how drunk I was.

As for my Cleopatra; she looked better than any ancient queen could hope to. Her hair fell in dark waves on her shoulders from a cobra crown of plastic gold. Earrings dangled down glittering by the bedside lamp. Her gown clung to her attributes like it was made from the essence of my lust. It looked like fresh linen with only a few creases pressed into it from a year of being forgotten. Her arms were wrapped in thin silvery jewelry the shape of small, lithe snakes entwining. Her black bra didn't even faze me, but added to the over all effect on my swooning brain. She was the queen of the Nile, and I was her emperor, Julius Caesar. How could the Earth not fall down before us?

We had obviously forgotten that the Earth was rather cold, even though the rain had stopped, leaving a chilled, damp aspect in the air. She stiffened like a bolt as we hit the air, and I did too, but it was too late. We were off into the freshly born night, pillow cases in hand.

We walked a block to get away from our immediate neighbors, and hit the first house with a porch light on. "Trick or treat," Candace said in her best little girl lilt. She elbowed me in the ribs for staying silent as the door opened.

An older man in a white t-shirt opened the door, his eyes lit up like sparklers when he saw Candace and only dimmed a little when he saw me. "Well, it's never too late for some people, is it?" He asked Candace, but not me. Just as I thought. "Here, you can have the rest. The kids must have stopped early this year." He looked me up and down. "Nice boots, Sah-ker-deez." I bit my lower lip as he dumped most of the candy into Candace's bag. I got a few remainders. "Want a beer?" He asked her, then me after she shook her head no. I said sure and he turned back and yelled for his wife to bring a beer to the door, which she promptly did. She didn't even look outside at us, and he handed the tall can to me, smiling at Candace like a hot TV dinner.

"Ahhh, Black Label, the choice of kings," I said. The old man said "wish I could say that's the truth," and closed the door. I put the beer in my pillow case as we walked on to the next house.

"That was weird I said," my teeth chattering like a wind-up toy. "I told you people would think it was strange if a full-grown dude is out on Halloween," I said. I wondered what people would think if Julius Caesar was drinking a can of Black Label beer on their front porch.

"Yeah, but it's not that bad. There's almost no kids out here--it's too dangerous for them." There was only one small group of them, and they seemed to be teenagers, walking a half a block down, not even going up to the lighted porches any more.

"I wonder why," I said with a snort.

Candace laughed as we stepped up on another porch. This time, a little round mother in a blue gown with fairy wings answered the door. "Well, what a surprise! Here, you can have this. I think we're done for the night. Aren't you two adorable. Cleopatra and Mark Anthony." I would have corrected her, but I got the bulk of the candy this time. Sadly, no beer.

"See?" Candace said with a twisting half smile, hugging herself for warmth. "Now you get the special treatment and I get the leftovers."

"But I'll share my beer with you later, if it pleases her highness," I said, putting my arm around her, greedily seeking her body heat. She wrapped her free arm around me and we agreed to share our shivers. We held each other as we shouted "Trick or treat" at the next house.

The young couple who answered the door said little and dumped their candy into our bags, before slamming the door shut and clicking it locked. "See what happens when you can't loosen up?" Candace said. "Your sense of romance dies. I bet they'd rather not even celebrate Halloween."

"I bet they'd rather kill and eat each other," I said and we both laughed and renewed our shared heat deal. The next house likewise gave us the rest of their fill, and the house after that. One of the stops, filled with revelers and music that was screaming for the attention of law enforcement, even brought us each a can of beer without asking us. I thanked them for doing their duty as good Roman citizens. They giggled a good night, closing the door, turning out their porch light as we reached the sidewalk. Soon, our pillow cases were stuffed, and we turned for home.

I cracked open a beer as Candace was unwrapping a caramel chew. Soon, I was digging into my bag for sweets and she was finishing the first beer. The cold only seemed like a minor irritant. We were singing Lollipop, feeling like children in a world that was made only for us. We drank beer and ate candy and sang tunes, the night our captive audience.

We arrived home as we were drinking the second beer. We stumbled up the porch in the dark. "I don't think they're home," Candace said, giggling. I opened the screen door, only to find the main door locked.

"Do you have the keys?" I asked Candace. She looked at me like I asked her if she had the sun in her pocket. "Do you?" she asked.

"Togas don't have pockets, my dear."

We went and checked all the doors. All locked, like good citizens of the empire.

We checked the truck doors. They were locked. The wind gusted and shook the leafless trees, blowing leaves in swirls down the street toward the lit up corner. A police car passed by on the main drag, but kept going.

Candace finished the second beer and I broke out the tall can of Black Label. "I bet Mark Anthony never forgot the keys to the palace. Cleopatra would have had him bit by the snake for that."

I was drunk, and now suddenly frustrated. "I'm not Mark Anthony! You dumped him last year, or whatever. I'm Julius Caesar," I said in exasperation that felt and seemed like it might matter, though it didn't. "Julius Caesar didn't need keys. He'd just as soon burn a place down as knock politely--or wait in the cold." I took a good shot at slamming the Black Label, but the bitter taste of skunky, bottom-shelf beer only made my stomach grouse and churn. I handed Candace the beer. She followed with the same results.

Then she turned to the bush beside our porch step and reversed the process. I figured the bush would be dead by spring, considering how bad Black Label beer tasted. Must be a poison made to kill the undesirable masses, I thought. I held her hair and helped her keep her balance.

When Candace was done being royally ill, I bit the bullet and broke out a window on the front door using a brick from our garden wall. The glass broke into long shards that I carefully pulled out of the sides. I cut my index finger, but that didn't matter. Soon, we were inside.

We went to the bedroom and Candace collapsed face first onto the bed. I took off my costume and put on a flannel shirt and boxer shorts. Candace groaned as I helped her out of her clothing, and took the long, dangling earrings off of her lobes before they tangled in her hair. The arm jewelry would have to wait until morning. I turned out the light and lay down next to her. The sheet/toga and the white faux-Egyptian gown had small, bloody fingerprints on them. My finger throbbed when I thought about it, right on cue.

Soon, Candace was sleeping, her only living noise a full but light snore. The wind howled through the broken front door window. I laid there as the bed spun--soon I was in a cold sweat. Candace slept, her body feeling soft and feverishly hot, like it was melting onto me. The bed would not stop its spin. It would only change directions, but never cease. If there had been a knife wielding brute at my back, I would have slumped forward to make his job easier.

As the bed took a right turn toward Albuquerque, I rolled out and crawled toward the bathroom, my stomach beginning to rise in rebellion against the unholy alliance of Sweet Tarts, Tootsie rolls, whiskey and beer that might have been surplus from the Great War.

Happy Halloween I said to the black lace bra in the floor, to the blood-printed sheet and gown.

Happy Halloween I said to the bedroom door as I bashed it open with my head (it didn't hurt, not until morning, at any rate).

Happy Halloween I said to the light switch in the bathroom, crawling up against the vanity to reach it. I could tell that if I sat on the vanity, it would have bucked me like a bull.

The toilet said, "hail Caesar!" Happy Halloween I answered back--more or less.

Really, it was the kind of night I'll never forget.

Treasure

The wind picks up,
but a breeze cools us down
with its ceaseless breath.

The earth lives,
the night sleeps
--but not we.

We feel each other's heat,
breathe each other's smells,
musts, passions and poisons.

A pink and white hat on the breeze
turns pirouettes, as in the treasured
dreams of flamenco dancers.

There are so many earthly sins,
they are numbered and named.

I wouldn't call love one of them,
even if sometimes, sometimes
it feels like it must be--
so let it be.

The winds can race forever,
but our hearts have only
so many beats before
the dream is over.

Top: A treasure, indeed. I can almost see her dancing in a smoke filled Spanish bar room. Probably behind the diagonal grid of a cyclone fence, sadly enough. They can be some rough places, from what I understand. Spanish coffee, any one? Bottom: The Rosette nebula, a region of intense star birth. Note the central "bubble" where solar winds have pushed gas and debris light years away from the intense blue stars that it his birthed, some as recently as fifty million years ago.

Longing

Two will join together
to one standing alone,
as this longest of days
turns it's back to dusk.

Long fingers will grasp,
longings met with skin
to steaming, taut skin--
warm shivers quaking
the beholder and
the beheld.

Two long nights
two long dreams
alone but longing
to join into one.

Too long nights
one requiting union,
one love one lust
one night as short
as the final ray of light
when the source dies,
and two separate ways
will once more be found.

As one becomes two;
alone, once again.
To recede into the haze
of distance and longing--
in the lonely days after.



Top: A binary sunset. Talk about a night light.

Bottom: It's headed right for us! as the famous South Park line goes. The Andromeda spiral and the Milky Way Galaxy are scheduled for a cart wheeling, stellar rendezvous of sorts, about 2.5 billion years from now. So fear not the sun expanding and engulfing the Earth's orbit in five billion years. Destiny is hurtling to meet us half way (as if you were worried). But, ahhh... what a view our grandchildren ten to the tenth power to the tenth power again shall have, right in their own back yard. Assuming that by that time they haven't found a way to turn all of existence off in a wink, as in the novel Slaughterhouse Five.

No Angel, No Demon

She’s writing poetry, naked, wet--
as though just born, but the truth:
she's fresh from the shower, clean
rivulets dripping, wickedly slow.
Inspiration takes many forms,
yet this one is my favorite.

She stands the empty field, alone;
terrible, swift sword in hand,
waiting for the next challenger
from deep within or without,
demons in the shadows and lines,
she, an angel with a blade of fire.

Nothing yet poisons the water
dripping from her hair, winding
rolling down pale arms, breasts;
she looks at me and I know, I know
time's numbered hours are short,
the angel glancing over her shoulder
at me, alone, as the last word falls.

The only thing to do, she tells me
is to turn out the glare of the light
for I am no angel, she knows this
by hell's heart; I can only listen--
seductive night falls down onto us.

Above: said battle of light and dark, to the victor goes the souls. By a very good friend of mine. Below: Centaurus A, a galaxy that only seems to know catastrophe, as it is one hell of a radio source, though a bit dead on the x-ray spectrum. I just like the darkness and light. It was once believed to be a galactic collision in progress, but now the dark band just seems to be some of that mysterious "dark matter" that astronomers swear by their holy theorems must be out there, but can't really prove it outside of an ungodly equation.

Spirits Live In Fire Of All Kinds

"Always keep them guessing,"
said the one-goddess
she of the checker-bordered
black, white and black again past--
her smile kept me guessing
until I could venture no more
to the many intangible realms
of her otherworld charm.

"Keep the mystery alive..."
she said, lighting a candle
a whisp of curling smoke
drifting between our eyes
reminding the both of us
that we-so-alone never are;
spirits live in fire of all kinds,
released by this spark
so difficult to extinguish.

"Let them down slowly,"
she knew this to be true,
and always did just so--
as the love-delusion only flares
brighter, higher, hungrier,
when one tries to quench the blaze
of desire in the eyes of a fanatic.

"Love changes everything,"
its mind, its heart, its path
a carousel one-trick pony
answering the mysteries
the guesses and cries--
it lets stricken hearts down
so slow, they sleep before hitting
the cold, wet ground of heaven
below the mountains of clouds
that pour rain down on our faces.

Bottom: Carousel at Arcadia Mall. I assume this mall must be in Arcadia, which I also assume is a city, not the Babylonian/Sumerian version of heaven.

Top: Pinwheel Galaxy photographed in the IR spectrum, by Chandra orbital observatory. Catastrophe can be a beautiful thing...

The Last Minute

It's never too late
for two souls drifting
walking away--

To defy raw fate,
to change everything.

To take
the blackest sorrow
of tears and pain
and raw memories--

To bend and fashion
golden manageries--
a raving nightmare,
to a luminous dream.

It's never too late
for our lips to say:
"I'm sorry"
"I need this"
"I love you"
"You should stay"

Even in the cold night
of our last minute
at the end of eternity,
to trade this nothing
for everything to be
if only
one of us would say:

"I'm sorry"

"I need this"

"I love you"

"You should stay"

To take
the last minute
and keep it--
unless
we walk away.

Seven Days + One

"Fridays are for dancing..."
she smiled and took my hand.

Saturdays are for soul,
the circle growing ever wide.

All the blessed Sundays...
Sundays are just for rest.

Mondays are for mornings,
snoozebars and not-agains.

Tuesdays are made for two;
happy hours, seconds slipping,

Away

Away

Wednesdays are for the grind--
call it hump day for a reason!

Thursdays are for thunder
that echoes before the end.

"And Fridays are for dancing",
I can't wait to hear you say it...

Again--

And again.

And again.

Boot Hill* Revisited (The Sky is Crying)

Boot Hill--
the lonely graveyard
for all dead cowboys
with forgotten
names...

Resurrection day
came and went...

And now they
arise high up.

Life is a dream.

And that dream
flies farther
than the finest
eyes can see.

Above the din,
over evermore;

Boot Hill--
a lonely memory,
far below their
soles and spurs.

Cowboys shaking
the gravedust off
their white and
black hats,
reaching
for the sky.

Today,
all names
are remembered,
today they rise--
never to fall again.

*Boot Hill is the name for many cemeteries in the western United States reserved originally for cowboys whose names and family were not known. The most famous of these are at Tombstone, Arizona, and just outside city limits at Dodge City, Kansas. Boot Hill is also a song by Stevie Ray Vaughn (pictured above), from his post humus album, The Sky is Crying.

V

Tight cut baby blues,
love-tangled fringes--
eyes lips fingers
searching in the night.

Everything about you
says,
"shut the fuck up and
enjoy this life, baby."

Tight cut baby blues,
you tell me to listen
and I do, I know
you hold the key to
victory--
what everyone wants
victory--
a low house payment
the children fed
and the warmonger
wannabes put to bed.

V for victory

Two fingers spread;
like her legs said
"Victory, so sweet,
just shut the hell up
and dance, baby"

V for victory

And really you're saying
it's all good and
it's all the same
spirt to soul
peace to love and
those sweet baby blues--

V flashing victory
one more kiss before
the night breaks for day.

Desecrated Spirits

I feel that everything murderous and conspiring is spiraling in toward me. I am the target. Take the shot.

My favorite girl is lost in Detroit--to me, she is lost. Lost in a city by the river that cannot sleep lest it may never wake again. Her cell phone is dead--to me it is dead. The message says she'll call me back next leap year.

I have one more cigarette left and it has to last until the morning. My buzz from the vodka is has abandoned me, there's no liquor here. I haven't smoked a joint in many forlorn moons.

Salvation is only a pretty word I can barely imagine.

Now, I'm writing a tiny haiku on a zig-zag paper:

the smoke circles rise

halos of a dead Friday

mouth silent goodbyes

I'd roll it up with some mean greens, a left-handed Marlboro we used to say, and try to let fly the mind that holds onto ethereal words like they were the only friends it has left.

The party should last forever, but it never does, nor will it. Ever.

Everything feels empty.

I tap on the glass of my bottle bed chamber and wonder: Will I ever be set free?














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I would like to take this opportunity to thank Oceanshaman for the following award:



Yes, this lucky looking award is called the "You Make Me Smile Award". All my blogger friends make me smile, one way or another. Yes, even you.

Consider yourself nominated if you read this.

And drop by the above link to give Oceanshaman a shout. He's always posting some great music at his place, along side precious wisdom handed down from Lord Buddha. You'll like him. Yes, even you.

Peace out.

Heaven's Dirty Secret

Look at her, she's floating,
laughing at my shadow,
eyes like heaven
knows a little secret,
pure and dirty.

She won't tell anyone...
not a living soul knows--
unless it's the wind,
she tells the wind
her wild everythings.

She shuts her eyes,
but she sees me
lieing down in the dark,
her smile gives her away
wishing against
the eightball-bottle,
spinning, pointing
at her, at me, in the dark.

psst.....
Heaven spills it's secrets
only on the worthy.

psst.....
She might be worthy,
but I might not be.

"Heaven is a lonely place"
she whispers,
"our shadows remain below"

And I take her hand,
pointing to the wall;
I say to her:
Look at what our shadows
are doing now,
floating together, apart
together, waves churning
in silver-eyed moon light,
dirty and pure--
forever.

She Lives

She will rise, despite lightning
forking down in strobe motion

--a snake's tongue flicking the air
with ungodly abandon

She is alive--
Her life shows in relief against
death's ancient bones,
black-shod boots

She is alive--
Tonight, the dead will rise:
Somebody tell Lazarus
to stay in bed with the wife

Somebody tell the angels to take
down the pyre and please

Somebody ask Jesus
to explain sin one more time
to his ignorant children while they
still love all the groans and sighs
that life has to offer them,
before the struggle lays them low

She is alive--
bare feet walking slowly from the
grave, from the alleys, from the hall,
from the bedroom, leaving footprints
one by one by one,
each step is the print of a woman
and a goddess;
let light be, and it will--
watch her follow it into the night

Red Wine, Green River, Shadowbox Royalé

Red Wine, Green River
you spilt her poet's soul,
sticking pages stained
some red, and some blue;
radiant shadowbox royale.

Red Wine, Green River,
take her to your shore
and she'll still float--
in spite and inspiteful
of your wicked undertow.

Red Wine, Green River
don't you ever let us drown,
tomorrow's a dream date,
yesterday a nighmarescape
and this moment
is priceless beyond these
weakest of all words
ever assembled--
waiting to rise
like holy legend born again,
one storm-clouded day.

Red Wine, Green River
eyes look beyond the deep;
some play in the dark
some play it for keeps;
and some for the
small hours of harmony
and radiance,
for a shadowbox royale,
for red waters to run pure.

The Moon Loves You, Baby

Just looked outside my window,
at Luna swinging so very low,
over the horizon and tree tops
looming as big as the houses
only inches beneath her
gold harvest glow.

I'll walk to her; watch me,
the distance closed to
a conspiratorial wink.
I leap to the tree tops
flip-spin, swan dive up
to her silvery, stilled land.

Watch me:
I'll take that old moonmobile
that the spacemen left behind
double parked, keys dangling
forgotten in the cold ignition
for a joyride; circles, spirals
victory turns, round forever,
dust kicking up in clouds
made of pure-silver lining.

Luna and me laughing in love--
rolling in ticklish madness,
while the aliens of the earth
make wild ghost story guesses
to why she glows gold not silver
on this cool breeze black-robed
night.

The Gilded Hourglass

"When the hourglass has run out, the hourglass of temporality, when the noise of secular life, with all of its ineffectual activism has come to an end, when everything around you is still, as it is in eternity, then eternity asks you and every individual in these millions and millions about only one thing: whether you have lived in despair or not."

--Soren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death



About a month back, Gillian of Indigo Blue, was kind enough to list me as a recipient of this award, for sheer kindness alone. Really, there isn't much to say, except thank you, Gillian. I try, but probably pale in comparisson to what I could, or rather, what I should be.






I could easilly award every blogger who visits my site this award. But I hope everyone will understand if I pass it on to only one other blogger, and that is Maithri, of The Soaring Impulse. And not just because Maithri awarded me the Thinking Blogger Award. I have almost never seen a blogger who is so willing to write only for the benefit of others. It truly is for the blessing and welfare of the less and least fortunate on this world that Maithri writes, to help bring to light the suffering of so many in his homeland. Maithri, you have the attention of many, and this small token is also yours, I offer it humbly but in earnest, with the blessing to pass this award to one other of your choosing.




And from Maithri, I offer this sleek award to Inside Our Hands, Outside Our Hearts, of the Breathe Beautiful blog, for her breathtaking haikus, as well as her poetics on all three of her blogs. Tara, you may pass this award to another blogger of your choosing.

And here's the poem. It it is not a happy one, written a while back. It's an exposure of unhappiness inspired by those who should have been serving and protecting, instead of enfocing a law for cruel puposes. I'd love if it ever made a difference. Let me know what you think.




Symbolism
E1313

It may have been
almost twenty years ago,
but I still remember it,
down the broken street
an old, gray wall behind a
brick, two-story liquor store
with the broken open sign,
eyes always drawn to
the glare of a blood red
swastika spray painted
across the grey mosaic.

It was the Nazi punk's
fingerprint, a welcome sign
to the newest neighbors
who moved right next to it,
who,
in the dead of their third night
in this stange, new neighborhod
were awakened, questioned
and a father arrested...
for vandalism--

Painting over a symbol of hate
with colorless gray paint
only a shade or two different
from the original stone face,
a substance that looked
an awful lot like blood
in black and white films
from before my time.

Twenty years or twenty more,
I'll never forget the blue and
red lights that accompanied
a dusky father to a cell
in white-out suburbia.

Fascism takes many forms
and that night it drove
Crown Victorias, lights strobing
der Fuhrer's Christmas in July
letting us know who's boss
and exactly who
will never be.