our pun'kin

for fhe the other night, as classically dictated by the season and lack of other ideas, pumpkins were carved. (which reminds me of this little boy who asked his mother in church how chipmunk was spelled and she said, "chipmonk," as if she knew, or was giving props to her time in the buddhist monastery) i got there late because i had a study group with some spanish class folks, and then i took a test. (which reminds me, as we were sitting in my dad's office, at about 7:10 pm, this creepy middle-aged man slowly opened the door, slithered his head around the door to see us, and then said, "you know, the lights will be cut at 8 o'clock." Creepsy.) Anyhow, i make a stop at fhe, and i see that people are doing intricate carvings of rumpshish plumpshish orange pumpkins. then i see my sister. she has cut two holes, about the size of the circumfrence of a shot glass, and a slit for a mouth. done. activity: accomplished. he becomes an instant celebrity and all try to talk to him. i left fhe, but a few minutes later i see his face coming up the stairs, wanting to talk to me. he was set on the bookshelf in the living room. yesterday, after about 5 days of sitting there, i went over to talk to him, look him over. i lifted his top. it was woven onto his skull with strands of gray-green mold. he's also developed an underbite and taken up smoking. i guess even pumpkins are mortal.