With the people
out of tune, mother
nature is my comfort,
a sunset to forget
that a woman cut
off the arms of her baby
and left to bleed;
serenity at sea
where waves rumble
and break trumbone,
a man broke off his
twenty year marriage
for some twenty year old;
seagulls that tweak the peak,
pebbles of sand and stone
that dance in the storm
with good intentions;
Nancy had died today
in peace from diabetes
six minutes after
they turned off the machines
to a beat heart pulse, then
a steady sound of led zone;
the horizon set towards heaven
some have their song that
awaits there,
to welcome them with strums
and cymbals,
drums and smiles, wings
to leave the bones behind
buried on the hem
of the world's solipsism.
and how would you like to read
the newspaper, and see her face
breaking news alert about that girl
at wal-mart, who clocked the clock
and headed out the dark sliding doors
to her car, re-locked.
a man lying in the backseat floor
silent as night, unseeingly she
turns the ignition and waves goodbye
to the other closer, driving towards
the exit parking lot, not realizing
his will be her last time here, beside
the lamppost that flickers dimly,
the always low-prices and people
smiling at her checkout line, thinking
they got a the greatest deal or steal.
and what happens when the stranger
makes his appearance at a stoplight,
a dead-long red light where no one
is visible and how she could have ran
it and wistfully had the cop taking radar
camouflaged in bushes, see her flash
through and pull her over for
a traffic violation, perhaps shine his
flashlight in the backseat, but he ignores
her rightful habit and returns to his
telephone conversation and the car
drives off normally into the night
being steered by the man pushing his
gun at her ribs.
and far away from civilization
north of nowhere, the cassette plays
forward the piano work of pachelbel
as his fingers glide the keys,
while this man pushes his fierceness
between her legs,
and all the while someone is waiting
for her to come home.
the yellow smiley face pinned
to her wal-mart vest.
at this time don’t we want to
sympathize and slaughter
this man, having grown up
a small boy with no fault,
but innocence to a mother
that had disappeared from the street
corner selling her body for her boy,
and when she was found a few
weeks later in a dumpster.
forced to live with a father
that never wanted him,
slapped and beat for being
born and a boy,
it was in the invention
that this boy learned to vent
his frustrations on nearby
domestic animals,
that he felt less an animal in
his thoughts. and better.
as he takes her to a remote
location, with a dark basement
in the floor of a shackled house
with her scuffled and sniffling, tears
falling on her yellow grinned pin.
and stabs her repeatedly where
ever the knife could draw.
as she clutches and dies,
he grabs an axe and quarters
her body as a pie legs in a pile,
her arms in another, her torso
and head uncut.
he hangs each part from the ceiling
like heads of lettuce letting the dirt
floor catch her blood.
drain free the rage of his childhood.
later he draws a hose of water
to the body parts cut even smaller,
and wraps them in vacuum sealed bags-
placing parts of her into durable boxes
with waterproof styrofoam and shards
of plastic padding.
on tomorrow, he goes to different
post offices with different
sized boxes and addresses,
some guessed, some known
others stolen out of a phonebook.
sending the liver to his father
who poisoned his own with alcohol,
a dead heart to a woman he loved,
but didn’t trust to love him back.
The brain for a teacher, who called
him a fool throughout highschool.
off they go, as he goes to another
post office clerk, who tells him to have
a pleasant day with a box soon
to head to the pacific coasts-
a pair of pandurate legs shipped
to the fbi, with an eye out on
the run, searching for his whereabouts,
of no leads or footprints.
what is left to be done when ups
comes to you for package acceptance,
you sign your name hand shaking,
to open a box of flowers for
a funeral parlor,
and another box with the hand
of your daughter,
her high school ring on her finger.
while there hangs fliers of reward
for any information posted of her
on telephone poles down each
corner of the world.
You tried to tell,
with words-
didn't listen, just
kept throwing
wood into the fire;
heating a house
cold of a home,
spent less time to
what was on your mind
with artless words
voice reaches
in the small dark,
gone heart outside
the wind blows
breaks ice,
static time
makes a way
into abloom;
a room a father
lies dying,
dying lies
with words-
that a son
doesn't hear,
just keeps
throwing wood
into the fire.
