The Product Poet

When I was a child, one of the first poems that ever stuck with me was Harry Behn’s “Hallowe’en.” Years later, a brand asked on Twitter what my favorite Halloween costume was as a child. I said Edgar Allan Poe. Some kids wanted candy. I wanted a raven.

So for Halloween, I went digging through the archive for the spooky ones. Some haiku from Halloween nights on Twitter, a murder I’m happy to confess to, and one ballad that’s a little darker than the rest. Press play, or read along below. Lights low.

I. Halloween Night

October 2012. A few of these I wrote live on Halloween night, a few minutes apart.

Enter if you dare.Haunted Halloween houses.Ghoulish frightful scare.

Twilight turns to night.A spooktacular evening.Anticipate fright.

Ding dong goes the bell.Witches dressed in morph suits.In bag candy fell.

Scary music played.The bellowing fog machine.Great costumes displayed.

Stir the witch’s brew.Potent potion elixir.For me and the crew.

II. How To Get Away With Murder

March 2015. The prompt said the poem had to start with: If I could get away with murder, this is what I’d do. It also had to rhyme. Here’s my confession.

If I could get away with murder,this is what I’d do: a) Find a pen,preferably a Sharpie, to knifean apple’s thin skin, Atom’sblood curdled words spewed on the Page.

2) I would reach for a jug of bleachto pour on to the Page, lobbying forhis or her dear life, words unspoken.

c) Open the bleach and cover the Page.Thusly eliminating my Rage.

III. Ghouls, Goblins and Zombies

October 2013. A whole month of haiku and a few couplets too, and the goblins came out early.

Days times thirty one.Involves a scary ending.Sun sets, goblins rise.

Ghouls, ghosts and goblins.Heart pumping sugar filled blood.Fall plays one last trick.

Goblins and ghouls.A witch’s brew.My candy filled mouth.A cavity or two.

The fog has rolled in.The smell of rotting corpses.Trick, treat, zombies eat.

Frozen fingers type.Neighborhood filled with children.Dog dressed as a cat.

And one more, from the week after Halloween 2012.

Dreaded sock monster.Halloween was just last week.My socks were the treat.

IV. Terror From Within

April 2013, National Poetry Month. The prompt was a murderer’s ballad, so I let the most famous one tell it himself. London, 1888. Whitechapel. His name was Jack.

I wait, for you, but you, don’t see.Buck’s Row, you walk around.Your job, you do, does disgust me.You do, not make, a sound.

It’s you, I greet, my “name” is Jack.As you, unbutton me.With my, quick knack, my swift, attack.Your blood, pours over thee.

My knife, cuts deep, a rip I make.With one, stroke of, my blade.They can’t, catch me, their souls, I take.For the tricks, that you’ve played.

They call, me names, the mourning, press.They do, not have, a clue.Your head, your arms, make such, a mess.As I, do blood, let you.

Ten plus one, equals, eleven.Lives, the press, convolutes.All eleven, not sent, to heaven.Scotland Yard’s, not, astute.

Happy Halloween from The Poem Home. Lock your doors. Eat some candy. Have a spooktacular night that is dandy.

In April 2016, National Poetry Writing Month asked for a fan letter to someone famous. I wrote mine to Edgar Allan Poe, my favorite poet, and invited him to dinner.

Every title in bold italics is one of his stories or poems. See how many you can spot.

Dearest Mr. Poe,

This morning, The Black Cat, the one that had The Premature Burial, presented An Enigma. At first, I thought it was The Angel of The Odd, but The Black Cat was Loss of Breath purring on my stoop.

The Black Cat claimed to be The Sphinx, hence we are in A Predicament. Therefore, myself, being The Business Man I am, decided to write you this letter, The Purloined Letter, that Lenore, The Raven and I would be honored to have you as our guest at Landor’s Cottage for an evening of fraternizing and Lionizing.

If you could oblige, please bring The Oblong Box, so that we may enjoy its contents. We will serve The Duc de L’Omelette and plenty of glasses of absinthe. Of course, William Wilson, The Man of The Crowd, will also join us to utilize The Power of Words, to conjure Some Words with a Mummy.

I of course, no longer being The Man That Was Used Up, will imbibe what Ms. Found in a Bottle. Once consumed, I anticipate a Mesmeric Revelation which may shed light on The Mystery of Marie Rogêt and The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, collectively referred to as The Murders in The Rue Morgue.

Please forgive my driveling and Diddling, but as your most loyal fan, I feel like a King Pest asking you to join us. I beg you to not think of me as The Devil in the Belfry, nor myself, William Wilson, Lenore and The Raven as the Four Beasts in One.

You reminded me once to Never Bet the Devil Your Head, but please come to help us rid ourselves of The Black Cat. If not for me, then For Annie, as she is trapped in The Haunted Palace, listening to The Bells in Silence. Together, the five of us, with The Oblong Box, the absinthe and what Ms. Found in a Bottle, we shall eat, drink and live A Dream Within a Dream while we travel to The Valley of Unrest to free her.

As there are not Three Sundays in a Week, if you do not come in a fortnight, dinner will be served Alone with just the Spirits of the Dead.

I await your response, but I will forever be respectfully yours as Thou Art The Man.

Warmest regards,The Product Poe(t)

On New Year's Day 2014, I wrote Cinnabon a love story, one haiku at a time, live on Twitter. Cinnabon answered with a wink.

Read responsibly.

"Hi, I'm Cinnamon."My eyes transfixed by her buns.Thoughts of icing licked.

We met at the Mall.Hoping I could take her home.I gazed at her glaze.

She's warm to the touch.Tasting like sugar and spice.Icing covered lips.

We raced to my car.Couldn't keep my hands off her.I fumbled my keys.

She sat quietly.Waiting for us to get home.I'll open her box.

Right in the kitchen.I plowed into her sweet buns.Reckless abandon.

Not just once but twice.Gentle kisses with my lips.Another love bite.

Soon it was over.Couldn't eat her fast enough.I cleaned myself up.

I then fell asleep.Visions of her in my bed.A happy ending.

One of my favorite things to do on Twitter was to ask my followers for words. I'd put out a call, collect whatever came back, and build a poem out of it.

In July 2016 I did it again. Nearly every word in this one came from someone who was following along, so I named it for what it was.

I fear my memorywill be forgotten by the sunlight.

I remain curiouseven though we are at a stalemate.

Excuse my brevityas with fun comes a soothing new thirst.

Yet I fear your silence,as a fresh mind can yield faith in love.

I'm not a curmudgeonnor will I be a neutral mugwump.

Effervescent I move,mellifluously sempiternal.

Want in on the next one? Leave a word in the comments, and I'll write the next poem with you.

In April 2014 I was writing a poem a day for National Poetry Writing Month. On day 28 the prompt was to turn the news into poetry. I found a Wall Street Journal article by Andrew Blackman called "The Inner Workings of the Executive Brain," and I could see a poem hiding inside his words. So I rearranged them until they read like me.

I tagged him when I posted it. The next morning he wrote back that it was the first time one of his articles had inspired a poem.

It's still the one I'm proudest of, because it was the hardest to make. Here it is, with the recording I made that night.

On my three-inch by two-inch phone screenI frantically type to meet a deadline,all the while the printed paper's inkhas settled into both my left and right hands,burrowing deep into my fingernailslike an orange jailbird.

There is only 1 calculation I need to knowthat equals billions of imaginary squirrels I chase downnever ending rabbit holes. Over 40 hours a week I spendhunting for the perfect words. Not 3 to 5, nor 9 to 5,but 24 hours a day, offering you not 10%,but 39% of my problems, yet 100% of my heart.

I try to unlock the secrets of my brain,an executive decision not made hastily, as Ibalance on the pros and cons of bridging the gap betweenintuition and strategician as I dreamof being a statistical magicianusing the sleight of my hands.

In fact, I'm always fast acting, getting results,though not every decision turns out good or bad,there are no awkward silences as I effectively switchbetween social and analytical modes, providing youencouragement, praise and rewards, which has resulted in astrong emotional bond and your sense of purpose.

Perhaps it's my attention-deficit-disorder that resultedin this new approach to rewriting my hardwired code,as I am a ticking clock holding your thoughts, wound up toplay you a lullaby of chimes at three a.m. in the morning,signifying that my hunt for wordsbegan but shall never end.

Built from "The Inner Workings of the Executive Brain" by Andrew Blackman, The Wall Street Journal, 2014.