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Literature Text
Do killers dream of oceans -
tucked deep in a cocoon,
spooning their wives
nestled deep in the soft chaos
of their arms?
Do they walk their children
to school, coats neatly
buttoned against strangers,
and take their tiny hands
like wounded birds
in their own,
counting red cars
and clutching bouquets of
daisies for the teacher?
Can they cook chicken soup
like their grandmothers did -
fistfuls of parsley and thyme
to soothe the iron pot,
stirring carrots and potatoes
with the first shift
of autumn's silver maple?
Do they make sandcastles
and leave their footprints
in the middle of July
and count the starfish
that nudge and wink in
the tidepools, their mottled
fingers pointing east?
Or have they only debris -
a life skewed and stretched
beyond human and the
sudden drop of pressure,
a lost companion,
dreading what wells up
from the surface and
sucks them underneath?
tucked deep in a cocoon,
spooning their wives
nestled deep in the soft chaos
of their arms?
Do they walk their children
to school, coats neatly
buttoned against strangers,
and take their tiny hands
like wounded birds
in their own,
counting red cars
and clutching bouquets of
daisies for the teacher?
Can they cook chicken soup
like their grandmothers did -
fistfuls of parsley and thyme
to soothe the iron pot,
stirring carrots and potatoes
with the first shift
of autumn's silver maple?
Do they make sandcastles
and leave their footprints
in the middle of July
and count the starfish
that nudge and wink in
the tidepools, their mottled
fingers pointing east?
Or have they only debris -
a life skewed and stretched
beyond human and the
sudden drop of pressure,
a lost companion,
dreading what wells up
from the surface and
sucks them underneath?
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Humidity and Blur
She hadn't been out in the rain since that night, Not since the night of the beatings.
She cautiously took a step into it, The cold pavement misting under bare feet.
The drizzle began to quicken into a pour.
Despite the cold temperature of the air, sweat began to prickle along the back of her neck.
She was nervous, But she had to do this for herself, Before the loud thunder and clashing lightning took over.
She let the blood flow away with the dotting, moving streams, Into an unknown abyss of pitter-patter and cold pins falling on her warm scalp.
It seemed to penetrate it like a thousand tiny blades.
However, She welcomed the blades, And cuts they brought with them.
She tried to embrace the soothing static, Each drop becoming a thick cartoon-like line.
She glanced down and watched each ripple fade quicker than the last.
Blink.
Each one had originality and an unplanned landing, an unrouted path.
It's what she wanted.
The rain let go into a soft paddle.
Each stream had its own light eminence and group.
She breathed in shakeybreaths, taking with her the fine mist of rain and letting it rest on her upper lip.
She did this until she could breathe right again, Until it appeared without thinking or comprehension.
Until a soft pastel rainbow came into view and all the dull colors of life went hazy and blurred out of focus.
She was gone.
Her white blue eyes geamed with shards of gray and silver.
She was one with the steaming humidity and cold renewed mist.
~ Tales from a Deadman
She hadn't been out in the rain since that night, Not since the night of the beatings.
She cautiously took a step into it, The cold pavement misting under bare feet.
The drizzle began to quicken into a pour.
Despite the cold temperature of the air, sweat began to prickle along the back of her neck.
She was nervous, But she had to do this for herself, Before the loud thunder and clashing lightning took over.
She let the blood flow away with the dotting, moving streams, Into an unknown abyss of pitter-patter and cold pins falling on her warm scalp.
It seemed to penetrate it like a thousand tiny blades.
However, She welcomed the blades, And cuts they brought with them.
She tried to embrace the soothing static, Each drop becoming a thick cartoon-like line.
She glanced down and watched each ripple fade quicker than the last.
Blink.
Each one had originality and an unplanned landing, an unrouted path.
It's what she wanted.
The rain let go into a soft paddle.
Each stream had its own light eminence and group.
She breathed in shakeybreaths, taking with her the fine mist of rain and letting it rest on her upper lip.
She did this until she could breathe right again, Until it appeared without thinking or comprehension.
Until a soft pastel rainbow came into view and all the dull colors of life went hazy and blurred out of focus.
She was gone.
Her white blue eyes geamed with shards of gray and silver.
She was one with the steaming humidity and cold renewed mist.
~ Tales from a Deadman