In Which Is Considered Evil Dead 2013

An Evil Dead film done with a straight face,
In which the taxidermy never sings,
In which the slapstick's gone without a trace,
Might seem to be the silliest of things,
Yet earnest works when this much care is spent
On camera work, on angles, and on shots
That make each face strange ere malevolent
And gruesome art's applied. So there is lots
To recommend this movie. There is gore
Aplenty, speedy evil zooms, and all
That we expect, yes, that, and then much more:
This film is art! Yet funny, too. I'd call
It Evil Dead 3 -- Not Just a Remake.
Worth all the time and money that's at stake.

Suppertime Sonnet Stories: In Which An Author Is Screwed From The Get-Go

"Well, Boyd, I think it's time we had a talk:
The public wants the story of your life --
These things still make bank! -- and  if you should balk
At all the work, well, I think that my wife
Would be a fine ghost-writer." "Well, I think
That sounds just fine," Boyd told his agent. "Wait!"
His mom said, on the conference call, "Don't drink
A toast on that just yet. I may be late
In telling you, but your dad's gambling caused
Some problems, so we kind of sold the rights
To your biography. And it was claused
In perpetuity." "When?" "You were mites."
"Who has the copyright now?" "It's been sold
So many times I'm clueless. And I'm old."

Green Wake: In Which I'll Visit But I Would Not Want To Live There

Green Wake is where I would not want to be.
Is it a town, or just a spot in hell?
Whatever, it is surely not for me.
That's not to say I won't just set a spell
And peek in on its doings - and I can
Through comics, which is really just as close
As I would like to get. No, Wiebe's your man.
He went there so we don't have to. A dose
Of god-knows-what, and he and Rossmo bring
Us news of that most dark, unpleasant place,
Where anyone, and nearly anything
May be a future frog, where any space
May melt you into nightmare forms, destroyed
By your own guilts and sorrows from the void.

In Which I Subtly Pimp An Anthology

The mirror which confronts us ev'ry morn,

So often holds such secrets, we believe,

As only we have known since we were born,

Has watched us smile and wonder, even grieve.

What would it say to us if it could speak?

What secrets does it hide beyond its edge?

And knowing us as it does, just how weak

And sometimes strong we are, what could it dredge

From memory to show the world if such

Were possible? What horrors, if exposed

This way, could ruin us? Reach out and touch

Its surface. What? There is none? You supposed

A thing with that much power would just let

You do that? Now, see what else you will get.

In Which I Am Creeped Out By Doom Presaging Mascots

Great Britain's brought us horrors before now
The monster Frankenstein built, just to name
One mem'rable example. Oh, but how
Those limeys have surpassed themselves! The same
Imaginations that once wrought the case
Of Jekyll and of Hyde, of Wicker Men,
Of gothic horror elegance, same place
That gave us Slake Moths and Remade, that den
Of terror and of nightmares now gives birth
To twin Cyclop'ean horrors that may yet
Surpass them all. O, poor unready Earth,
That soon shall feel their sprightly tread, I bet
Your children's screams already peal their fears.
Just wait 'til their dominion in two years!

In Which I Team Up With @Ghostfinder To Mess With Your Pea Pickers, Pilgrim

The West is where I hang my tattered hat

At present, and, as of this morning, where

My next big writing project takes place. That

Excites me, and it pleases me to share

The news! My good pal Adam Christopher,

A voodoo steampunk master (horror, too)

Is teaming up with me (we did confer

This very morning early); our aim's to do

Up Weird West creeped-out fiction like no one

Has yet attempted. We are just the team

To do it, too, in process having fun

At vast unhealthy levels, it would seem.

So git those spurs on, little buckaroo,

'Cause soon enough something will holler "Boo!"

In Which I Face A Weird Dilemma

I am returned, and so pleased to have found

In what I've christened my Mud Room of Squee,

My own pre-ordered copy, strangely bound,

Of J.C. Hutchins' print debut. How he

And Weisman pulled out all the stops! It's come

With a great heap of horror-flair to sift

Through and investigate as I do thumb

Its pages. Where to start, though? I'm adrift.

I've called to hear Zach Taylor's voice mail bit,

And poked around the Brinkvale website, natch.

The podcast prequel gave some hints that fit

My expectations, but there's e'er this catch:

Play with the items, follow where they lead,

Or first open the book and start to read?