I ponder Hitchcock’s life ending twists
and learn that a knife stabbing into a casaba
sounds just like a body. I suddenly arrive
at the realization that if I wasn’t a writer,
I’d probably be a serial killer.
That is the yummy thought I have
flying like a bat down a Los Angeles freeway
avoiding horns asking: what the fuck?
The reconstruction of my life
has me longing for a symphony of yesterdays
caged in worry free routines.
when I knew my place.
Slowly I progress to my success
beside a girl lacking anything I’d call friendly.
I live suffocating in inattentive greed.
A steady retail paycheck
consumes all visions of me.
I’m hiding in a line
androgynous in jeans and a t-shirt
that has me borne
into a conforming vision
of hell-saken what-ifs.
I accept the promotion
abandon my dreams
settle into a nuclear family
and bury myself in layers of hostility.
Photo: Buffalo Bill, Silence of the Lambs