stepping over the dead mans body 

still holding the bone-handled hunting knife

in his bloodied hand

that killed the man 

                       he searched his conscience 

he searches it for their names labels  their differences

                                                          his life  the dead mans 

the reason 

           the provocation 

                                  murder

              

at least that much was evident

at least 

          that much hed admit            

also  blatantly  a hard admission   these living thoughts on the other side    

were only his

had he been the dead man he honestly he reverently believed

this dead man would not have scratched his head

questioned his conscience

about killing him 

hed seen it when the others numbers were too many

too many to have stood a chance against 

too many to dare stand against

 

their eyes

they wouldnt look for help

they bore their eyes into the chest of the nearest murderer 

                                                                not relenting

 

hed witnessed murders

and later 

           buried what remained 

   conscience 

               a tricky thing these days                      

 

 

he grabbed a handful of the dead mans shirt under his wiry beard

the stiff dirty beard made his naked wrist itch

he dragged him off to the side of the dirt lane

dingy grass and weeds splitting where tire treads once ran

the land fell away there to an undergrowth 

into a stand of trees where their heads nearly touched the leaves 

                                                                       clean and green 

he turned the dead mans body parallel to the lane

undid his belt

yanked it free

stuffed his hands into his pant pockets and strapped the body with the belt

he tied his shoes together with their laces 

it would roll

 

with a hand at the dead mans shoulder

the other at his hip 

                    gripping him hard

he flung him over into the grassy descent

 

the dead man seemed to roll for a long time

                                                   long enough to return to his conscience

to search it for 

                 their names labels 

                                          the justification for murder

                                                   

absently

he walked down the country lane

cut free a small bough from a small tree stump facing away

returned

brushed away the scene 

he cut away grass tops covered in blood

he scrapped the earth with the soles of his boots turning it over  hiding where blood pooled

the whole while preoccupied

                                   searching

 

he walked up the lane

a kilometer he guessed

walked out a couple of hundred meters and circled back back past where he murdered the man

then a couple of hundred meters more

squatted

hidden

a vantage point from where he could see up and down the wiggly lane it looked like a maggot

 

he was sure the dead man had people

and even these people

had some semblance of individuality

outside their hive mentality

 

 

he always searched his conscience after a murder 

                                                        despite

his conscience conferring their names  labels 

it was habit 

              a forlorn habit a bad habit  he knew that

he gave the man an opportunity to walk away

every man he murdered 

                          he gave them the opportunity to walk away

a bad habit he knew it 

                         then turning his back hidden from sight he pulled his blade

they lunged guts unprotected

 

itd become an old dance  

                          feiging fear 

                                        seeming smaller than he was

begging Please please  cant we go along on our way 

                                                          Please

 

 

no one came from either direction

the stars began their pinprick appearances

the birds had roosted

bats fluttered hungrily

 

there would be enough moon to see by after it rose

 

hed walk away then

 

 

Are we agreed now his conscience asked

                              

If you wont agree hear me

The men and women you have killed

not murdered

killed

 

They were cannibals

 

And whatever you are

 

You are not

 

 

   an owl cried

                           he hadnt heard an owl in a long long time

 

Monday,  29  7. 13

1119,  day-between-2-Ts,  19  4. 23

Sometimes

we havent the sense of a child

it weaned out of us

beat out of us

for the necessary education we must have

to articulate 

             the inarticulate

to make sense of nonsense

                             and nonsense of sense

to compete

in a fixed game

fixed in as many ways as one is taught 

                                          to imagine

or fixed in imagined ways

 

Sometimes

we havent the sense of a child

and forget our wonderment

our crazy curiosity

the knowing-better than opening our mouths

                                               to crow proper accusations

when they are rudely due

we forget to play hide-and-seek

hiding in full view

unable to be seen

camouflaged inobviousness

 

Sometimes

we havent the sense of a child

to see all the other children playing around us

playing games of make-believe

                                 so hard

they believe their make-believe

unhappiness is happiness

unhealthiness is healthiness

they believe the dictation they take is their own

 

Sometimes

we havent the sense of a child

and we forget the blue day surrounding us

the yellow sun is a melting pat of butter

there is fragrance in a flower 

                               in rainwater tears

or hear the sound of a smile

 

We are odd

a lot of the time

 

an hour out of San Francisco over Nevada, day-between-2-Ts,  10  3. 10

1002,  day-between-2-Ts,  19  4. 23