Back When I Was Eight,

Every Halloween they would hummm a million rubber skeletons across the ave. The ecco' (eko) echo would reverberate across the cobble stone archways and the dead would plot their late night escape through broken earth and shattered leaves. Portals if not a doorways from the unconscious rest of the weary and needy coalesce the scars of sacred souls. Collectors items had to be taken from the shelves and worn like a Christmas elf's pleats. No holiday should have been quite so substantiated, though the pleasant Pagans chanted an exagerated hymn for the children in need of a brief reprieve from those unfortunate soon to be triangulated cans in need of lips to hold. We rise! Not yet dead but a certain loss of life flushed through the rivers and spilled through our plants and into the ever expanding canal fucked daily by bottom feeders sustained on filth and PCB's. You're warming a steady cadence in the heart beat of first snare drop mutant karp and herring pickled and salted to perfection. Kids packed like shards in plastic receptacles swaying the bodily oils necessary for a front row hog of rear end discipline. If not for the pumpkin king, for every lost boy in search of an escape from pages left on shabby filth shelves in cellars stinking of old plum vinegar and honey jar sediment, my lisp pressed against the brown glass oxidation free cup. Nothing to say for our day. Any-day but the day before the day of the dead. Us kids know.