Sometimes I Want to Kill People

The following treatise should explain what I have done to the friends and loved ones of the deceased. I do not seek sympathy or forgiveness through this confession, I only wish to document what I have done to betray any errors that may come up the coming investigation. I have no reason to mislead. Let this document be an arc to carry the bitter truth.

There was a young woman, a snort-and-chortle woman. An I-don’t-care-who-knows-it woman. She was lounging at a sidewalk café with three others of her breed. Long looks of disapproval to passing people. Glossy lips and airbrush tans. Permanent make and semi-permanent breast enhancement. Pastels and sandals. Bloody Mary’s and itching Labia’s. They spoke of the violently banal subjects like bad sex with strangers and six-thousand dollar handbags.

There was the God blesser. A barely restrained zealot whose emotions are tempered by mid-afternoon fishbowl margaritas and cosmetic gardening. She was a Wal-Mart widow with an SUV and leather skin. Sallow cheeks and brand-name diamonds. Little orange bibles and a magazine rack by the couch. Vinyl siding and silk flowers.

Then the enabler. The hard-line voter. He sat on the fence between Republican and Libertarian. He fought the Living Wage. He fought reparations. He fought environmental protection. All from the comfort of his office chair. He only had a phantom of sentience. Blank stare from vacant, medicated calm. Hunting license and crystal-clean hiking boots. Money clip and sky-high cholesterol. NRA patches and insulin needles.

They all passed away recently. I didn’t save them, but I could have. I could have saved them. I could have saved them, but didn’t.


by Butch

--

This one's a match made in - well, somewhere, anyway. The title was given to Butch by Jen, our favoritest bartender over at McRaney's Tavern. As is obvious, she is not to be fucked with. The fact that she calls Butch "Bruiser" is testimony to the fact that he was just about perfect to write this one.

You Rock

Sal chow!
There. One designated word out of the way.
Not one of yours, mine.
No refunds.
Here’s a few more:
Suglafeties – Grecian trombone player with a penchant for penchants.
Penchant – Stuff people I make up do.
Trombone – Like a flute. Bigger. Longer.
All this because I rock.
And the crush I have is on Bella.
Not her prudish, yet also fairly really hot yet unattainable sister who went on a date with some French talking guy but I didn’t hear how that turned out I hope he’s gay.

Sesquipedalian
I don’t know French.
Ja Mapelle Stupid.
Here again, I’m hoping the do-no-wrong Rock! status will get me past the ridicule.
Let’s make that, let’s see … Sesquipedalian Sasquatch.
Okay, here’s the poem.

And whereupon the darkness dropped
Night fell like a something that falls night-like
The sasquatch of my heart was stirring
and the saints threw themselves upon their swords
and Jesus glowed with red shame when his mom caught him tugging the little savior
And night
Oh yeah
Night did its thing.

The streetlights flickered out
the pavement sighed
the grass warily peeked around the curb
and the moon waned
with an axe-like grin
and a camper somewhere,
about to draw his last breath,
is lulled by a boogedyboogedy from dad.


by Butch

--

My theories:

a) This was one of Anna McCambridge's daily vocabulary quizzes in poem form.
b) She was, at the time, drunk and / or punchy from dealing with Visual Fringe.
c) Butch was drunker.

Favorite line: "Night / Oh Yeah / Night did its thing." I'm totally stealing that for the next thing I write that involves a detective.

Where These Tracks Go

There are vaults
filled and pressing like lovers
against floorboard din.
Within are stories and letters,
plans and apologies,
blue-black ink like veins
that drip solemnly,
remnants of memory with tangible life.

The despair seems sweet
in the recesses.
You may have been bought and sold
and had your eyes blackened,
but the receipt is still valid
and the drive-train will hold out
before the warranty passes away.
We are all radiant figures
and living martyrs,
act like gods in front of a firing line.

There are boxes
bursting at the seams and glowing like a fever
against what’s left of the carpet
worn and giving in to hospitality.
Within are love poems and the pens that birthed them,
check stubs and proofs of purchase.
They are road signs,
bad directions from a stranger
and we follow with an honest grin
and pocket change burning holes.


by Butch

--

I think they may have just given Butch the title and told him to go nuts with this one. And in true Butch fashion, he went nuts very quietly. Not his best (that's coming up), but I kinda like this one.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Pint

“Innkeep, bring seven more of your darkest bitter.
And spill none.
We are weary
and the traildust will does not wash off by will alone.”
The sly troubadour nattered aloud.
And entered a raven-haired maiden
whose skin was rosy.
Her contours desirable
with deep poitrine
deep unfathomable depths
and coal soot darkened her eyes,
as if she was a lady of the night,
and the troubadour, being cloy and with a wife far gone from the tavern,
planned a rendezvous
which unfolded in his mind
like intricate tapestry
and the halls within his intellect lit up
with bright schemes
and spurious foundations.
He saw his saddle bent with the maiden’s limp frame
and his bed full of her yawning curves.
He slipped out of his seat, in his mind, and fell upon her with all of his charm
and suspect guile
and tamed her with a lash of his tongue.
He projected his strategy
like shadowplay
up against the reverse of his eyelids
and watched his the plot unfold.
Every eventuality carefully penned
in tendrils of thought
slithering from ear to ear,
The troubadour was ready to claim his prize.
And he stood in one great leap.
Sending an ocean of pints across the inn floor.
So he mourned for seventy days.
in a room alone.


by Butch

--

I believe this was one of the many tortures given to us by Visual Fringe honcho and poetry addict Anna McCambridge, who delighted in throwing us words like "poitrine".

This is also proof that Butch would rather have been role-playing that week.