CRIMINAL FINDINGS
“Scientists found that pigeons have trouble finding their way home if their right nostrils are plugged.”
“Findings,” April 2011 in Harper’s
One long term case study verified that death
would be imminent if victims were tied to concrete
and dropped in the East River at midnight.
Men and women of all sizes lose their breath
when wire is twisted around their necks
and pulled. The less a person eats,
the more likely he is to lie under pressure.
In several experiments, it was found that heroin,
used judiciously, can keep prostitutes on the street
for longer periods and make them less likely to fight
or try to escape. Researchers found no cure
for a knife thrust to the heart.
In the short term, crime does pay.
It was discovered recently, there is an application procedure
to copyright one’s Mafia name. The outer skin
is easier to remove when wet. Scientists found a chart
used by hit men to determine the statistical
likelihood of success by type of rifle or handgun.
There is a mathematical formula used, in part,
to calculate, in a ransom situation, the minimal amount to pay.
FLOOD OF CENTURIES
“Entomologists working in Iran and Turkey learned that a rare species of solitary bee builds brood chambers of brightly colored flowers.” Harper’s, July 2010
Even bees get depressed,
down in the flower dumps of bee-dom.
Everyone needs
some alone time, space to remind yourself
there’s only one chance
to get it right, or semi-right,
or done in a way
that won’t embarrass you.
In dreams, the bee discovers
a blossom larger than an oak tree,
waterfalls of pollen
roaring out. In life,
he heads to the brood chamber,
punching his fists through walls,
screaming at the top of his tiny lungs.
I’m no hero. The good parts of me
crumble off my shoes like dried mud.
If I’m lucky, I’ll come to terms
living as a footnote
in the flood of centuries.
If not,
I’ll need more than a fucking brood chamber
to stay alive.
INTERVIEW WITH THE DEVIL
Sometimes it’s too damn easy.
I prefer the challenge of the hard-headed,
those with convictions, those sitting at the feet
of God. Sure, it takes more time and energy, a certain deceit
to break their wills, but once you have them at their last shred
of hope, tripping them into sin—an affair with the neighbor, a robbery,
one final drink of blood—that gives me a rush beyond
any frigging miracle. It’s hard to explain
what a soul feels like in the palm of your hand.
It glows. Some nights, I look up to the stars, stand-
ing on the roof of a burning house and smile. I think of Cain,
my greatest feat, and feel truly blessed in this oblivion.
“Scientists found that pigeons have trouble finding their way home if their right nostrils are plugged.”
“Findings,” April 2011 in Harper’s
One long term case study verified that death
would be imminent if victims were tied to concrete
and dropped in the East River at midnight.
Men and women of all sizes lose their breath
when wire is twisted around their necks
and pulled. The less a person eats,
the more likely he is to lie under pressure.
In several experiments, it was found that heroin,
used judiciously, can keep prostitutes on the street
for longer periods and make them less likely to fight
or try to escape. Researchers found no cure
for a knife thrust to the heart.
In the short term, crime does pay.
It was discovered recently, there is an application procedure
to copyright one’s Mafia name. The outer skin
is easier to remove when wet. Scientists found a chart
used by hit men to determine the statistical
likelihood of success by type of rifle or handgun.
There is a mathematical formula used, in part,
to calculate, in a ransom situation, the minimal amount to pay.
FLOOD OF CENTURIES
“Entomologists working in Iran and Turkey learned that a rare species of solitary bee builds brood chambers of brightly colored flowers.” Harper’s, July 2010
Even bees get depressed,
down in the flower dumps of bee-dom.
Everyone needs
some alone time, space to remind yourself
there’s only one chance
to get it right, or semi-right,
or done in a way
that won’t embarrass you.
In dreams, the bee discovers
a blossom larger than an oak tree,
waterfalls of pollen
roaring out. In life,
he heads to the brood chamber,
punching his fists through walls,
screaming at the top of his tiny lungs.
I’m no hero. The good parts of me
crumble off my shoes like dried mud.
If I’m lucky, I’ll come to terms
living as a footnote
in the flood of centuries.
If not,
I’ll need more than a fucking brood chamber
to stay alive.
INTERVIEW WITH THE DEVIL
Sometimes it’s too damn easy.
I prefer the challenge of the hard-headed,
those with convictions, those sitting at the feet
of God. Sure, it takes more time and energy, a certain deceit
to break their wills, but once you have them at their last shred
of hope, tripping them into sin—an affair with the neighbor, a robbery,
one final drink of blood—that gives me a rush beyond
any frigging miracle. It’s hard to explain
what a soul feels like in the palm of your hand.
It glows. Some nights, I look up to the stars, stand-
ing on the roof of a burning house and smile. I think of Cain,
my greatest feat, and feel truly blessed in this oblivion.
