Dream

I stabbed fourteen people last night. With a knife. And with no one around — there were lots of people around — doing much, or anything, to stop me. I don’t remember what it was all about. This isn’t exactly a confessional. 

But it has something to do with love and all the bullshit that’s everything else. They fell before me, all pink and in slow motion. The knife dipped its probing end in with a madness. The madness that removes us from the world, or cracks it as a back cracks into the new sudden places. Then, with the juices of life pumping again to the brain, coming down slow and heavy like iron on string, you hit the earth. 

And you clean up the damned mess because you know what is supposed to come next, and perhaps by tidying up for a moment they’ll forgive you. Each of them for each act. But blood stains and the streets aint made of fuckin marble, and so they find you, but only after a time.

I hit the earth, and the earth is soft. The tidying thing is inane. The blood regurgitates and drags black under the streetlamps. It’s a cartoon, I say aloud, with That’s All Folks never coming. There’s nowhere to change the channel, to hide them, so I give up and go home, tuck away the paper evidence, and cut a smile into my face. It still is bleeds whenever I am afraid.

And of course, eventually they come knocking. My home is raided politely, but efficiently. The bedroom nightstand. I smile red. Here. I took care of it best I could. Doesn’t that say Sorry? I remember sputtering through my face. You killed this many people, they say, stamping the paper. I disappear.

Next thing that happens is me staring at the grocery store paperbacks. A girls book, a girl I knew, her book humming along to some invisible tune in the shelf as I remove it. I fan the pages to the back notes and there are pictures, of people she knows, of me. My glasses float on my obscured face. I look up, and i’m at the dinner table across from her, lookin down, half in meditation half in sadness.

“Because of what we had,” she says, lookin up to my eyes. I remember what we had, but they each slip through the cupped fingers of my mind and spill out onto the pages, my name spattered everywhere in a constellation of blood.

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