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


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