Halloween Story / The Key

    "You know... there's nothing as tempting as a locked door." His lips curved into a leer, teeth flasing ivory underneath cracked, rosy lips. He was beautiful. Enticing, seductive, dangerous. His entire being was a siren-call, a warning in designer jeans. I loathed him.

      He exhaled, blowing vapors in my face with exaggerated slowness as he waited for my response. His eyes flashed, fingers twitching with calculated strength as he ground his ciggarette into the heavy cement walls. I shivered, reminded again of our close proximity and location. It was an old bunker. Spent condoms and empty bottles littered the floor, forming a dense mat beneath my KEDS. The door waited. It's deadbolt sat slightly ajar - techinically, the door was locked. But a simple shove would knock the deadbolt from it's perilous perch, and allow this boy and I access to something I wasn't sure I was ready for.

     "Let's just stay out here," I mumbled uneasily. I attempted to turn my head away, but suddenly, those fingers were there, gripping me in place. He sneered and blew his foul, empty breath into my face. Frozen, I watched as he moved closer, dropping the spent ciggarette down my gaping cleavage. Startled, I started to pull away - but he was there again, holding me in place. He was beautiful. He was all dark eyes and long, unashamed stares. A part of me hated it, hating the way his eyes roved my body andexplored the swell of my breasts. I part of me loved it, and I hated that too.

      Then we were moving. His hands were moving, our feet stumbling, my head was reeling. His hands ripped at my shirt, cold nails skimming the soft expanse of my stomach. I hated it, I hated it. Then came the locked door - a quick shove, then an unlocked door. On we stumbled, his eyes narrowed and cruel now. So beautiful. With a quick, harsh shove, I was no longer standing. I hated it, hated it, hated it. But there was no stopping him now. The door was open.

Autumnal Meaning / Somewhere in Valley River

Victoria's Secret alarms me.
There's money in the air,
Crazed women, heavy and frail,
Each throwing panties here and there.

It's an assembly line.
You admire a bra or two,
When suddenly "Wabam!"
An attendant; "What can I do for you?"

Henry Ford could not have done better,
He with the gears and the automatics -
These women have bras and panties,
They're hard-boiled fanatics.

It's a "What's your size?"

"You look like A 34D,"

"Right this way!

Come along with me!"

They stuff you in rooms,

Whom have nice big mirrors,

To inspect your chest, 

and realize your fears. 

So they offer you alternatives,

Throw lace your way,

Tell you about pricing,

Until your face is gray.

They have sales for your needs,
Swimsuits and yoga pants,
Everything possible,
All for overpriced romance.

You admire wands of mascara,
Oodles of bronzer,
Then there's a lady at your side,
Applying strange colors.

She's orange.
Soon you'll match!
Your eyelids bright blue,
Your knickers aghast!

So come to Vicky's,
Where grown women play,
and where men avoid,
But are dragged through all day. 

SAT Desk Blathers -Education

       The slapping of test booklets against a desk; How similar I find it to the last writhings and gasps of wary, dying salmon on an ancient wooden deck.

So I did them,

Yes I did,

I'm alive,

Although my brain is dead.

The SATS,

They're monsters!

Pinching, demanding-

Like large blue lobsters.

So RISD, SAIC,

Hear my plea,

Send me money,

And educate me!

Song Lyrics

      I spent my childhood crawling on my knees with dirt engrained in my shattered nails and a callouses on my bare, dirty feet. I smiled wide and unashamed with hair just as rabid as my dreams. My days were spent in the dirt pits. When it was too dark to see my toys in the dirt, I was reeled inside, where I relocated every grubby handful of dirt I could to the living room coffee table.

      In an effort to quiet me down, music would be played. Papa would ease off his boots behind me, and Katie would ruffle through her CDs until she found something suitable for impressionable young children and sharp-eared mothers. This selection included a large number of musicals, bollywood soundtracks, ballads, and sailing shanties.

      And so, the Witch of the Westmoreland came to exist in my private universe. Archie Fisher wrote it. Stan Rogers sang it. The Waybacks enhanced it. And I sang it until I was convinced it could be improved no more. Even know I can still conjure the images brought to mind as a child by the ballad. I can dream of tired knights and brindled hounds as easily as I can breath.

      The song has even grown with me. Mysteries and lyrics have unveiled themselves over time, leaving the Witch to consistantly evolve as I grow.

Pale was the wounded Knight
That bore the rowan shield
Loud and cruel were the ravens' cries
As they feasted on the field

Saying beck water cold and clear
Will never clean your wound
There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland
Can make thee hale and sound

So turn, turn your stallion's head
Till his red mane flies in the wind
And the rider of the moon goes by
And the bright star falls behind

And clear was the paley moon
When shadow passed him by
Below the hill were the brightest stars
When he heard the owlet cry

Saying Why do you ride this way
And wherefore came you here?
I seek the witch of the westmoreland
Who dwells by the winding mere

And it's weary by the Ullswater
And the misty brakefern way
Till through the cleft of the Kirkstane pass
The winding water lay

He said Lie down my brindled hound
And rest ye my good gray hawk
And thee my steed may graze thy fill
For I must dismount and walk

But come when you hear my horn
And answer swift the call
For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn
Ye will serve me best of all

And it's down to the water's brim
He's borne the rowan shield
And the goldenrod he has cast in
To see what the lake might yield

And wet rose she from the lake
And fast and fleet went she
One half the form of a maiden fair
With a jet-black mare's body

And loud long and shrill he blew
Till his steed was by his side
High overhead the gray hawk flew
And swiftly he did ride

Saying Course well me brindled hound
And fetch me the jet-black mare
Stoop and strike me good gray hawk
And bring me the maiden fair

She said Pray sheath thy silvery sword
Lay down thy rowan shield
For I see by the briny blood that flows
You've been wounded in the field

And she stood in a gown of a velvet blue
Bound round with a silver chain
And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice
And three times round again

And she's bound his wounds with the goldenrod
Full fast in her arms he lay
And he has risen hale and sound
With the sun high in the day

She said Ride with your brindled hound at heel
And your good gray hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's lain
With the Witch of the Westmoreland