Pumpkinhead's Philadelphian Subterfuge

After Pumpkinhead

I sat in my dusty room
copying D. H. Lawrence
while watching a pack
of honest teenagers
get torn apart by a beast
that was conjured up
in the southern mountains.

Pumpkinhead. That's what
they call the thing that
does more dragging than
tearing, that only drinks
the blood of a human once
throughout its entire movie,
that can't catch fire,
and has eyes that look
pretty realistic and human.

I sit here typing up about
the experience and I think,
it's no wonder I'm sad,
as I sit here alone, forcing
myself to watch others' peril,
knowing that many movies
are just noise, failures,
just like many writings too--
poems and prose alike,
and I think about my own work.

In at least one dream tonight,
I hope I find this Pumpkinhead,
or, more convenient, I hope
that it runs into me, so that
I may see its claws scratch
a cross onto my forehead, and
I may feel it snap my neck,
and I hope it chooses to
rip my head off and drink
all my blood, so that I may
get some kind of grip on reality,
when I wake up in a cold sweat,
wondering what's going on,
and not thinking at all about
Pumpkinhead, or other demons.