Thursday, January 15, 2015

On icicles and murder

I think of the perfect murder-- how, if broken, one glassy tip used to stab the enemy dead would soon melt into a pink puddle: no more weapon. Would my hand slide down the slippery shaft like some sex scene in “Frozen?” Would it stick like a tongue to a pole in “Christmas Story” as I jab into the heart? Who would I murder--a cop? An innocent black man selling lose cigarettes? Donald Trump and all he represents?

 It's come to this. Some of us are so poor we cant afford proper weapons-- search along highways for the tossed-outs: plastic bags for suffocation; doggy bag to crumple inside a tailpipe; shard of glass to slice the femoral; deer femur for a blow to head. The smart ones wait for winter to come, wait for the icicle—sleek, beautiful, ticking for expedient murder. We wait because we're human after all-- we cause meltdown-- our machine selves emit warm, pulsing heat and destroy.

 Though pulsing we don’t feel so alive. We float along and cant stop staring at the goddamn light. They're talking and all we hear are their lips opening and closing like a garage door. Is this how an icicle feels-- heartless self sucking a rock-nipple for its life-- birds, cars roar by when the sun's in full rise, bits drip away from a distant appendage, feeling nothing as we drop-by-ticking-drop age, glisten into nothing. Even the moon can not save us.

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