April 14, 2007

In Autumn
and in Winter
and on all those
freezing nights of Spring,
when nights still come with fog
descending like a
deconstructed woolen blanket.
When there is
hazy light from moon
turning darkened rooms
to silver-I always think
of IT:

I imagine Steven King’s
Evil Clown in my bed.
curved beneath the covers
like a child but furrowed
with malice and murder
and hate.

I imagine him
in my room
while I’m asleep,
smothering me –
red gash grin
parted over
razored yellow teeth

I always worry
he’ll be waiting in my dreams.
that IT will happen-
in a fashion-
’cause I have
laid the patterns out
and sank their brainwaves
into REM release.

But I never dream of IT.
I only ever see my friends-

hating me,
or leaving me,
or dieing.

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