The August Editor's Pick Poet is Fred R. Kane

Please feel free to email Fred at: manfred_arcane@yahoo.com

BLACK FEATHER BED

Unkindness, murder, and the unforseen demons
followed you home,
now you can’t rest your head.
So you go counting crows,
for the sheep
won’t quit screaming,
and you toss and you turn on a black feather bed.

Heard you quote “never more!” as you answered a calling.
Saw you rush in where the angels won’t tread.
Outside, they take five
with the swans by the water;
said they’d keep watch by your black feather bed.

Try dreaming of mosque, synagogue and cathedral
unified by the words any madman has said.
Eating death from the streets,
all those birds sing together,
and keep you awake on a black feather bed.

Cry, and let fly the unkindness, the murder,
and blind side events where we showcase our dead;
then dream we will rise
as we lie on the down
that’s in each, and in all of our black feather beds.

So, I go counting crows
now the sheep won’t quit screaming.

HAVING A TIME WITH THE LIVING UNDEAD

Lestat remembers when Bram Stoker was the rage. 
Remembers further back, when a new literary form, the novel,
raised such a fuss in the uptight “upright” community. 
Arthur Grimsdyke recalls how it tore his heart out when his mother destroyed his EC comics.
“Trying to save us from juvenile delinquency!” says Bub, before submerging his head—
Black Sabbath rattling his phones.
Old folks.  In closed quarters.  For extended periods… 

I’m stuck here in this “antebellum demesne” as Grandma calls it.
The walking dead mill about the grounds waiting to grab a meal.
I could spend a whole day grousing and sniping—
Mom and pop say it’s a waste of time.
They’re content to stare at the glass with grandma and just watch.
A big rip-off.

Elvis says to ol’ Bob Johnson,
“Remember when the blues was the devil’s noise?”
Christ! I think, almost aloud,
I can’t watch this.
Leave the TV.
Retreat to the back porch.
Whip out the phone,
and go to splattering zombies.

A GENUINE AMERICAN ANTIQUE

The human skull caught my attention:
placed on a lace covered wicker chair, and wearing a half melted black candle.
Other curios adorned the storefront diorama. Some things normal,
others, kind of Texas Chainsaw Hooper
(curious array of savage-craft bone sculpture).
Kind of Voodoo-Cannibal-Norman Rockwell-Goth, I believe,
is what the owner was going for.
Stuff looked awful. No doubt, awfully expensive.
Collector’s items, for sure. Just the same,
I was determined to leave with something, so I browsed.

Everything of interest was beyond my budget. Still, that skull… 
Did it belong to someone famous? I fantasized
Marquis de Sade, or Vlad Dracul-Geronimo, maybe.
Pristine condition suggested it could be a later model.
Early 20th Century perhaps? Maybe it belonged to a 1930s gangster, or movie star.
(How often are Hollywood graves checked for heads?)
What a conversation piece that would be! Almost like owning Kennedy’s brain!
There was no price tag, which usually means: “priced beyond reason.” 
Then again, it could mean, “price negotiable.”
There’s that black candle hat…
If that’s not original wax, I’m thinking, maybe I can talk the guy down.
So I asked, almost singing: “How much is that skull, there in the window?”

Smiling like a ghoul, a dusty smelling geezer said
“It’s early Salem Mass. Witch trial stuff. Could be old man Corey’s.
The candle was added by a previous collector. Thought it might look cool.”
Inside, I was like, Wow! Maybe I can afford this! I asked, again, “How much?”
He said, “The thing is well kept. You ain’t going to find many
seventeenth century bones in this condition.” 
I countered, “Yeah, but that’s not original wax…”
We haggled awhile, then finally agreed, and I walked out with this beauty!

So, here it is, in my trailer, proudly displayed above the electric fireplace:
a genuine American antique, looking down on, and grinning 
at Mexican and Chinese-made furniture.

Fred R. Kane has been a fan of horror and sci-fi since he was six. He even took decorating hints for his home office (lovingly dubbed, “The Nerd Cave”) from Sol Roth (Edward G. Robinson in Soylent Green).

Fred started writing when he was thirteen. His stories, verse, reviews, and letters have appeared in Walpurgis Night, Necrotic Tissue, Morpheus Tales, Fangoria, and Rue Morgue.  He occasionally places first drafts of his verse at Deep Underground Poetry dot com, and on his facebook page.