The Killer

I am the misconceived unconnected son of an ordinary woman who baked as many cakes as your Mom, loved me as much.  My father went to war, saved the nation, came back shell shocked with medals and memories he cannot tell. Something went wrong with me.  It was not the boyish pranks, soap on your windows, Halloween T P on your house or car.  I am evil behind a mask, the guy who breaks into your house, microwaves your cat, leaves a note, “I just had to see.” I feel no remorse, it’s all good fun.  I’m the unknown gunman of the drive by shooting, hitching a freeway, waiting with a rifle, dropping a cinder block from an overpass… Tense, clean-cut, overly polite, the All-American type at the 7/11.  I pack a 38, take a bus to Nashville and murder six people in the mall for the thrill of it, the fun, the fame. I am the unexplained American dream gone nightmare destined for the black print of the newspaper —  The brute in us all, the reason you bolt your door at night.

 

Jack-o'-Lantern_2003-10-31

 

 

 

 

 

*Cover Photo by Gwyn Henry

Toward Samhain, for Shawn Morrissey

It would be a lie to say
I have no sorrow for the dead
I sing to them
To steady heart and head.
Sorrow, a boy forsaken
Sleeps no doubt
In the quiet of my bed
He cannot be mistaken.

Rising to the early light
To torpor I awaken,
I care for him
His Sadness never shaken.
Cold days in ink
I give him voice, the mild
And the meek,
Seldom have a choice.

Sometimes tears are words.
Understand me,
Ghosts follow in gloom
Throughout my home
Looking on lovingly
They crowd the rooms of memory
They do, until we join them too.

Friday 13. 2017

This poem has nothing to do
with Shawn Morrissey being dead.
He’s very much alive & well.
It’s for him because he’s into ghosts, horror, sci fi
and other spooky stuff.

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Painting by Odilon Redon