Ted Bundy the Poet

Ted Bundy was as much of a Poet as a killer. He playfully crafted words knocking down walls, potential growing, with a jury dedicated to justice. Would the women, and daughters die on the page the way they had at the end of his fingers. I fear we’ve lost the literary giants of our time to the literal. They kill off their characters off of the written page; terra.

Could the cults, blood thirsty, writhing with union hold the Allen Ginsbergs, the Walt Whitmans, the Franz Kafkas? In a time where the only thing to fear is your own children, to be a genius may mean insanity. 

          What beautiful tragedy lies within the confines of John Wayne Gacy? What were the last thoughts before the planes hit and bodies fell from the sky like unfortunate hail?

Corrosive Concern

Now she is concerned

Breaking me down
Peeling back layers

A fire in the rain forest
Ravaging, pillaging

A tree remains
The sun shining through green
Fluorescent leafs
Pictures of lost children pinned to the oak
And guitar lessons
From old
Tired
Sexual predators

The last of its species
defiled

Now the fire stops by
“Are you alright?”

Even the words are hot
A plastic leaf falls
And crumples in the flame
Toxic vapors emitting

What words are there to say?
Giving mercy, after there is none left to give mercy to

After this genocide
Thank you for your kindness
Thank you for your bountiful love.

I’ve never had a friend quite as noble as you.
To break me, torn glass in the gutter
No one has ever been so good to me

To pick up a piece of that glass
Cradle it in your palm
And ask “do you know how we love you?”

I know not of something that can hurt you enough
To be a valid response.

Inadequacy

It’s only in the mirrors that I see ghosts
The image shrouded by shadows

When it started
Surreptitious spirit blending into the background

Spending back word days
Peering into the mirror

Gradually it grew near
My reflection drained as it rose in stature
First it stood with a hand on my shoulder

Like I was
Someone for him to mentor,
to mark

In this instant, I can see it in me
My eyes are bushed and bitter

Eyes I’ve never known
A carnage of my character

A cleaving of my humanity
Check the reflected corners
Giving up
The feeling of smashing a fist through the computer screen
And jumping over the edge

The feeling of inadequacy
Like you’ve ascended thousands of feet
But looking up you realize

You’ve only just started.

Under the Muzzle

Is that how you see me?
On hands and bended knee.
Would you rather have your Mercedes
than this old sled dog
Calling out to be free?

When you read those fairy tales
At such a tender age
did the room at the top of the tower
directly translate to kennel?
Is a fair maiden
Man’s best friend?

Could the idea
that your own mother
differs from cerberus
be so ground breaking.

Could a thought
hold more content
than a bark
or a growl?

Or will the leash remain
like a noose forever tightening
a noose of sexualization
and breeding.

Only when a dog bites
is it a dog.
When an underdog bites back
it is a bitch
So is it a complaint
or a compliment?