I learned that Halloween is more than a confectioner’s celebration. The night of the pumpkin smashers and costumed cravers soon disappears as all the loving in our souls are sucked up succubus style with incubus intent. How one of the religious righteous might conjure up such a paradox, I don’t know. The answer doesn’t come by prayer; it unravels like travel plans within a magical mystery tour. It finds you, hunting you down until its bullet hits the bone. Bang. Blood. Euphoria. The night’s indigo sky spatters with celestial beauty collapsing into a vexatious conundrum pattered with syncopated rhythms blasting from Lucifer’s iPod attached to spatiotemporal speakers and howling woofers. You can’t ignore it. Soon you’re swooning and swaying as Ziggy plays guitar voodoo-style. Feel it. Make love with his ego until you’re sucked up into his mind like a leper messiah—hypnotized. Or so I was warned.

Throughout the neighborhood, caution signs were painted over with the message to yield. Many mistook the carefree feeling for sugar free chewing gum. A dire caretaker was crucified for sleeping at his post as the watchdog got rabies—the foreman got fleas. Panic pranced on the switchboard tongues tied in knots; some came out in sympathy; some came out in spots. Voicemail refused all calls postage due. And it’s strange, so strange. You know you’ve got to pick up every stitch left by beatniks who made it rich. Must it be the season of the witch? Maybe in Allentown, I don’t know.

Here, a full moon bloated blood red. Ghouls glorified in lore lurked in the shadows awaiting the source of soul-molestation, knowing that the Luciferian Spirit would dance with the Antichrist as the band, the Spirit of Belial, played an old gospel tuned ramped-up heavy metal like. The genesis gloated as a king snake crawled deftly to devour the spider on the wall. It’s nature way of telling you that something’s wrong. But is it, and is there… something wrong that is? Doesn't God have more power than the devil— Beelzebub Bob? Someone confide in me and swear that shining, flying, purple wolfhounds, shown lost in winter’s musing circumstances, is no mistake—yours... mine. Please?

Silly human race, I was told that if we walk in it, Satan’s seduction, we’ll become his prey like Mr. Jones and the counting crows of autumns past. Witchcraft working for the good will be ignored by dirty hearts and wrong spirits. Demons will be assigned gym class-style. Those who participate in the ritual praying for Snickers Bars, Kit Kats, M&M’s with almonds and Red Hots mixed with fruity delights, will be drawn through the open doors that once closed on Jehovah Witness’ and confused pizza delivery persons immune to the knowledge of the Mabon, encouraged by a holy wrath dancing to the fallacious festivities. So sayeth Pat Robertson. “Remember my truth,” he told me without pious pity, “on Halloween the vortexes of hell are releasing new assignments against the sorry souls that participate.”

 “Now I know I have something to say but the problem is to say something, ‘cause I like to know what I’m doing when I do it and I do what I’m doing ‘cause I don't know what to do when I’m not doing it,” I answered back last Halloween; my breath going all phantom-whisp in the chilly air.

“Silly you will see, people who worship the devil continue to attempt to lift him up. But he has already been cast out and down! Many are blinded to this fact, but the day will come when all will know he has been defeated once and for all.” Preacher Pat prattled.

“Dude, lighten up,” I said shielding my children’s children from his spirited spittle I believe he believed was holy water. “If you’re out of candy, just say so.”

“I’ll pray for you,” He said handing out copies of Courting Disaster. “That’ll be $19.95.”

And from the cliffs of Dover, Eric Johnson played with stolen wings as Patti Smith lamented the changing of the guards. She wasn’t in the ethereal, this I know….

Happy Halloween.

* for more on Preacher Pat's pathetic paranoia check out Myriad's blog.  

Patti still rocks on....