The Scarlet Cooler

Her toes sink into the mud
cold beers daddy pulls out of
the cooler
she lays on the blanket
lifting her skirt

feeling the warm sun
on the back of her thighs
he watches
drinking cold corona
out of his scarlet cooler
the scared yet?
cooler
darker than blood

She lifts her foot
but the mud rises
daddys drinking cold corona
out of his red cooler
she shrieks disbelief
“Daddy why?
Daddy
I don’t want to die”

His head spins
“where’d that little
bitch
run to?”
grabbing her by the wrist
he pulls
“Daddy it hurts”

He grazes the crotch of his jeans
and he pulls
“STOP DAD”

“shut up”

she cries
screams
he hears a crack
and her arm lies limp at her side

Lifting her over his shoulder
his hand on the back of her thighs

standing erect
slurring
bronze

“My arm Daddy.”

Lying her down on the blanket
he cracks open another beer

Ferguson

Carefully divvied
Up on my figure.
Spread like frosted pastries
Dispersed evenly
Meticulously
The shards of the vodka bottle
Teases me
With the cold alcohol.
Bashed against the base
Of the stuck in traffic
Swat van

“Rest in peace Michael Brown
Every cop in the ground”

I shuddered when the rock broke
Through the window
Of the shop
Where he bought
His own
Ferrari
Something old
Withering away in the garage
That he always seems
To prioritize over people

He would have killed for that car
6 shots, unloaded clip killed.

I smoked in line,
Holding the banner
Cigarillos
Almost sweet enough
To have been stolen

I see the ignition
The catalyst in his
Black pocket
And the town in burning
And my eyes
Are burning

But if this country was built
Upon the backs of my
Lashed forefathers

That same ignition
Would be at the edge of his gun
Blazing through
The fire in me.

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?