(no subject)

Digging this beautiful October afternoon. Walking around the neighborhood. Halloween season already. The first gray foam tombstones have begun to sprout early across the dying lawns. Pale orange pumpkins, too young for faces, wait patiently for carving knifes from the corner of front porches. A lone plastic skeleton hangs from a modest oak - pivoting in the breeze, reminding me of the awkward stance of those who arrive to early for a party. Then there are the flocks of paper witches, floating in frames of darkened windows I pass by, offering me their familiar crooked smiles.

Home now. Sitting here writing this, the crows are loud and the wind is strong today. It tells me something in a language that I have long forgotten. A poem written in the sharp bark of whirling caws, a lovers secret whispered on lips of rustling leaves. I close my eyes and try to remember, but all I find is this nagging absence where a memory once was. An empty lot fenced off, an abandoned fort found buried in a backyard, a gutted suitcase sprawled on the side of a road. Occasionaly I'll see quick visions of my childhood that spiral around in my thoughts, scattered pages torn out of a magazine tumbling in the breeze.

There's only one thing to do. I climb out the window and mount the roof of the house. I step cautiously over the creaking tiles to stand atop the front edge directly over my attic apartment. I will a steering wheel to appear between my hands. Then I tell the roof to grow a mast and the broken chimeny rumbles in response, rises into a massive obelisk behind me, stopping only when it towers over the trees that flank my home and a wide white sail unfurls down from its ledge.

"Take her out!" I command my invisible genii, my Holy Guardian Angel, my little ally.

The house shakes, the walls release a terrible groan, the windows rattle, the cable and telephone lines begin to snap... until my home begins to rise over the block, the view of Little Five Points spreads out in a band before me, the wind picks up, threatening to pluck me off the roof at any moment, I roar defiantly back into it -

"GO!"

And I launch my ship forward to that place that I have long forgotten.

Its such an Ancient Pitch

"Those fingers in my hair
That sly come hither stare
That strips my conscience bare
Its witchcraft

And Ive got no defense for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do

Cause it's witchcraft, wicked witchcraft
And although, I know, it's strictly taboo

When you arouse the need in me
My heart says yes indeed in me
Proceed with what your leading me to

Its such an ancient pitch
But one I wouldn't switch
Cause there's no nicer witch than you