I. The lifespan of a pumpkin is incredibly short. Considering the rapid pace in which a pumpkin goes from flower to fruition, it is quite literally a blink of an eye. And there is no nobility in a pumpkin death. No, it is a long and grueling process. From the beginning, the pumpkin patch is like Wall Street, 1763. Being poked and prodded, weighed, gawked at and compared to my brothers and sisters. I was chosen earlier than the rest for my robust size, even ridges, and vivid colour. I remember being severed from the vine- I know that humans don’t remember being cut from the umbilical cord, but it’s the only human experience I can compare it to. I imagine that if I had lungs I would scream or eyes I would cry, but I suppose the lack of these organs is what makes it so easy for humans to humiliate us as they do. We have no voice of our own- and who would stand up for us? Possibly vegans, but I digress.
Once inside the human home, I’m set on a “tiled countertop,” as they call it. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it’s polished and hard and artificial. The coldness of it makes my skin stiffen. And then, as if overcome by brain fever, the smaller humans rush about their living space grabbing up “newspapers” and “paper towels” (no doubt made from abused trees) and just as I had feared, knives. More polished coldness. I know what is to come- I’ve heard the cautionary tales. When my siblings and I hung on the vine as buds, we’d swap horror stories. Of course, we didn’t think that they were real then. Though we had seen older pumpkins snatched up, we were too young to understand. And now that I know it’s all true, my fear isn’t for myself but for my kin. I know that it isn’t normal for humans to hope for their loved ones to rot, but it is for pumpkins. I hope that they will grow old, old, old until the day comes that they quietly fall off the vine and become food for the animals and the soil and their seeds impregnate the earth. And though I may be faced with this violent fate, I am not going to be afraid. I shall not sweat, nor make my skin tough to their blades. No, I will be soft as butter and dry as the sky. As the humans pick up their tools of operation and discuss what kinds of sweet treats they’ll be making with my “guts,” I yield to the steel and dare them to do their worst…

II. They’re finished now, and I’ve been gutted to within an inch of my life. My insides are piled in a white bowl beside me, my seeds rest on a tin sheet, dried of juice and covered in salt. Their skin is transparent and flaky like fish scales and the flesh underneath is toasted brown. They baked my babies! They baked my babies and now they’re popping them into their pudgy, glistening mouths like the giant who used bones to bake his bread. It occurs to me that I can see more of the room than I originally could. It makes sense… now that half my skin is gone that I should have a clearer view of the world. The oldest human walks over to the small ones.
“What did you make guys?” she asks.
“A face!” they exclaim. Was my original face not good enough?
At this point I catch a glimpse of the “face” that is being discussed. Behind the humans is a painted forest locked in by a sheet of glass. On the spotless surface I see my reflection- my smooth, rounded skin has become a hideously comical mask. Two triangles and a semicircle make up this face, the mouth being a jaunty one-toothed smile, a sweet ironical touch. A hanging man with a grin. A tiny white candle has been lowered into my hollowed out stomach and lit. The flame burns my core and scorches my skin in some places to a charcoal black.
My consciousness is sliding around now… from the kitchen to the pumpkin patch and back again… The fire in my belly has dulled to a pleasant burn… maybe because I’m so cold and now I’ve gotten colder… they’ve taken me outside… placed me on an artificial hay bale… more children appear with plastic replicas of me dangling from their polyester-draped arms… they grin and their smiles match the “pumpkins’” smiles on their arms, match mine… this is all too hilarious…
“Trick or treat!”

There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, *****, cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-******-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!

Roses are dead
Violets are few
Sugar is bland
Forgiveness is, too.

Bloodstains are red
Bruises are blue
Poison is sweet
Revenge is, too. <3

It's so trite.
Premeditated and concise.
Too much like something that you would like.
Angular and rigid,
tired and frigid.
How is it
that you can make something as beautiful as Mozart boring?
When the strings should be raving, thrashing, roaring?
Maybe it's just that particular recording.
Either way,
you've made it dull.
You've made it a pain.
I'd even go so far as to say you've made it annoying.
So, congratulations, sir,
for tainting yet another piece I once enjoyed.
And I'll throw in a "*******" here at the end
for good measure.

Chocolate-covered old man
sits behind an oak desk
brittle quill in shaking hand
hovering over a cool pool
of smooth ebony ink
He smiles and licks his lips
at the scrumptious possibility
of himself.

On the street
by a crumbling grey tenement
of old white sneakers and coffee pots,
blue clotheslines and floral wallpaper
a young mother sits on her porch
folding her son's laundry
her eyes darting from button to fly
wondering what she could make him for supper

I stop
gather damp newspapers
and discarded plastic bottles that lined the curb
and stare long at the mother
whose hand gently flattens the creases that run
down the faded denim legs
of her beloved, ******* child

I light
a small fire in the rain.

I want to write a poem
about the state of things
with sharp wit and criticism
jacks, clubs, spades, Kings

I want to write a poem
about mental health
and how the crazy could be the sane
with less serotonine and more wealth

I want to write a poem
about my state of mind
of floating numbers, shifting colours,
brittle nerves and choking vines

I want to write a poem
about the winter weather
Naked maples, cracked cement,
sugar plums, sleepful ether

I want to write a poem
about a soothing blend of tea
Steeping time, orange peels,
history in unfurling leaves

I want to write a poem
about my final resting place
one with candles, herbs and lilies
a quiet "Hail Mary, full of Grace."

I want to write a poem
about making marmalde,
coriander spice cake and
fresh chopped lavender, food grade

But mostly I want to write a poem
about anything at all
but every time I even try
I hit a ******* wall.

Dawn slipped through the dusty blinds
of the chipping white condo
in the middle of the city
Soft, pale light
like the sallowness of her late son's cheeks
stuck in broken bars
to the far wall of the living room
The tiny yellow canary
in its iron prison
did not sing
A newspaper
with boldened headlines
lay open on the kitchen table
unread
The neighbours ignored the fake white lily
laying quitely on the cement,
cracked with cold,
the blue recycling bin
that had never been taken from the curb
the letter in the mailbox
that had never been read
The murmur of the news
floating from the television
that was always buzzing
filled her head with the static of
Nothingness
And her head, it seemed
was at the bottom of
Everything.
Slowly, the electric blue light
was lifted with white fingers
from the grey sky, through the blinds
She sighed heavily.
She hated watching television in the dark.

Sitting there
plumping up your Russian-red lips
around a straw that is
as long as it is thick
Girlie
I know you ain't read none of them books.
You wait for the movie to come out.
And do you know what happens in that movie?
Well.
There's this little girl in it
much like you
with the same red lips
and heart-shaped glasses
like yours
and sweet sky-blue denim
hugging the comely swope of
girlish *** and soft rounded thigh
hiding so little of slender leg that I wonder-
why bother wearing clothes at all?
And she and this man...
well...
she and this man get to be good friends
like you and I could be
if you would first just tell me your name.
Oh, you're busy, are you?
Well, I bet you are
Go on then.
Tempt some other sucker
while you **** on
some other such ******* symbol.