This Was Murder

It's not that I hadn't seen a dead person before.
I had.
I was at my grandmother's open casket funeral.
And it wasn't that I wasn't familiar with death.
I was.
Many people somewhere in my life have died.

But this wasn't just a dead person.
This was a victim.
And this wasn't just death.
This was murder.

As he took me through the experience,
he showed me the apartment complex.
He showed me the shabby yard littered with broken toys
and other garbage.
He showed me the front door of the apartment.
And then he showed me her body.

Movies and TV has desensitized me to violence and murder,
but in the back of my mind, I always knew those weren't more than actors
holding their breath.

But there was something about her face.
Something about the way she looked
through those eyes.
With nothing behind them anymore.
Just an empty body on the carpet in front of me.

As we went on, he showed me the blanket
that had been draped over her face.
He showed me the abrasions on her shoulder.
And then he showed me the shoe print on her neck.

This was real.
This happened.
Still looking at her face, her eyes,
I imagined what she must have been feeling
when she had that boot pressed against her throat.
What it must have felt like to be at the mercy of someone
that would go as far as stomping on her neck
in order to kill her.

We jumped a few days, and he showed me the autopsy.
He showed me all the trauma she sustained.
He showed me what bruises look like
when blood stops pumping through the body.
And then he showed me her tongue,
cut from her throat.

A sure sign of strangulation is a broken hyoid bone.
In order to see if it's broken, it, attached to the tongue,
must be removed from the body and examined.

It was broken.
We were finished.

My reaction at that point surprised me.
I felt light headed, began to sweat, and felt sick.
And it was totally visceral.
My mind couldn't handle such a shock.
This was too real.
On the surface, this was just like any other murder movie.
But my brain could tell the difference.
And my brain let me know.

Something about the was she looked
through those eyes
with nothing behind them anymore
really got through to me.

It's not that I hadn't seen a dead person before.
I had.
But this was victim.
And it wasn't that I wasn't familiar with death.
I was.
But this was murder.
This was different.

Plywood Windows

With a careworn face
and a cardboard justification
a pair of green shorts
with a shabby John Lennon t-shirt
tied around them
sit above haggard gray soles
in front of a building
with plywood windows

Telling

The only readable words
on any of the faded pages
of that journal
were "I miss you."

Thanks

A good friend
from another world
peeks
into mine
and
speaks as if
he never left

Golden Gaze

God's gaze gives the Golden Gate its grace.

Friends & Enemies

Place the apple on my head
and let the arrow go
but if the sunrise finds me dead
I'll trust in you no more

Summer

The corded edge
of the red
cafe awning
brushes against the window
as it sways
in the warm breeze

Dinner For Two

The candlelight
flickered
in your eyes
as your foot
brushed mine
under the table

At the Base of a Cliff

The church bells echoed off the hillside as passing carriages splashed water from puddles on the cobblestone streets, still wet with yesterday's rain. As the sun rose that morning, with hints of thunder lingering in the sky, and the pews cleared out, the farmers tended to their crops, or at least what was left of them. This storm was quite a shock, but the small village thrived in its wake. It seemed as though nothing could interrupt this world, full of natural beauty and wonderful people. The farmers, the baker, the tailor who had sewn most of the clothes in the village at one time or another. The schoolteacher who everyone loved, especially her students, and the barber with the regal white beard and friendly smile, always telling stories that would brighten your day. Everyone knew each others names, how their children were doing in school, even what they were all doing for dinner. It was quite a close community.

Ah, but there was one man who's name most people didn't know. Who had not been taught by the schoolteacher, and who had not heard a single story from the barber. Who's clothes the tailor had not sewn. Clothes of which thread he wouldn't dare touch. Clothes of the man who lived not more than a half mile from the village square, yet was never seen. Some say he stayed in because he was afraid of showing his ugly face, for the constant shadows in which he dwelt had disfigured him over time. Others said he left early each morning down the road and didn't return until nightfall, sometimes returning uglier than when he left. Other said he was simply dead; killed by his own conscience. While none of these were known to be true, one thing was: the townspeople were comfortable with the distant relationship.

Yet some were not satisfied with his mere absence from sight. It was if they could smell his presence; as if he were a disease thats infection was worse than any flu. While many prayed for him each Sunday, some refused to even acknowledge him, except of course to condemn him. However, as much as they talked, no one dared come a step closer than 30 paces to his door. As far as everyone was concerned, he could rot in peace.

One dark night, however, after stumbling out of the village tavern, the smell of bourbon ripe on their breath, a group of townsmen headed down the road in the direction of his door. They were fed up with the man that plagued their village, and decided that night to do something about it. Just as the men caught sight of his door, they heard it creak open, and saw him emerge. The men were unsure of what to do, having bucked up the courage to walk to the door, but not ever truly expecting anything to come of it. As they watched him shut his door and head up the road out of town, they slowly followed, keeping a good distance behind. They followed for almost two miles until he stopped. Looking over the cliffs on the edge of the village, the man stood, silent and steady, just looking, as if waiting for something. The ground was still wet, and his boots were slowly sinking in the mud, yet he remained.

After what seemed like an hour, the men grew restless. One began sneaking along behind, not knowing what he planned to do, but feeling the animosity swelling inside him. He thought of his children, his wife, the rest of the village, and pondered just how life would be without this curse of a man. Just then, the man moved. The townsmen shuttered and hurried quietly out of sight. The one who had crept around behind felt his heart beat almost double in time, fearing he would be seen. The man struggled to pull his feet from the mud as he began to kneel. To the townsmen, or at least the one behind the man, it looked almost as if he was crying. And being the church-going folk they were, they could have sworn that his faint mumbling was a prayer. It could not be though, for this was an evil man. But the more they listened, the more they were convinced that it truly was a prayer. How could this be? This infuriated the townsman behind the man, and in a moment, he leaped from his hiding place toward the man, who was still knelt, and in a fit of rage gave him a mighty shove. The man lurched forward over the cliff, but was still stuck in the mud. Realizing the consequences of this action, the townsmen fled back to the village. Struggling to hold on, the man dug his hands into the mud and tried to pull himself to safety. Grunting like some frightened farm animal, he gave a final surge, but it was not enough. The mud gave way, heaving him over the cliff to the depths below.

When the townsmen returned to the village, they crept quietly into their houses and into bed, and slept that night as if nothing had happened. Life went on as usual in the village after that, no one the wiser.

The man is something of a myth now, nobody sure if this tale is true. Not sure if anyone had ever tried to help the man who had plunged from the cliffs that night. The story says he was judged on appearance and hearsay, and never had a chance, and the villagers were content with that. Perhaps the man was flawed, yes, indeed he was. He hadn't the resources to help himself, but searched for them until he was finally thrown from the cliffs by the very people who could have helped him. But few had any idea, and most likely never would. And they were content with that.

But the man who was thrown from the cliffs that night, he did not die. He remains, as real as ever, and that is the saddest part of all.

I'm looking for a place to hide
because I can't fit under my bed anymore.

And the monsters found me.