Like A Cold Blade Against The Skin
April 21st, 2005tripping
stumbling
cracking
grating
blunt force trauma
like a cold blade against the skin
elegantly sadistic
brutally sophisticated
like a gun to his head
scratching the surface, of
terror casually horrific,
bleeding to death
on the sidewalk of
nightmarish dreams…
coldhearted
unappreciative
lost in this lonely, desolate
concrete landscape
we toil
thoughts provoked
violence begets violence
and a sheer rampage of
unspeakable carnage
takes place before me
lest they be
the mercenaries of pure
hatred and indifference…
victim: “watcha doin’ muthafucka?”
perpetrator: “i’m gonna kill you, asshole”
victim: “bring it on, brutha, bring it on”
and the shimmer of glass hits one in the eyes dead on,
as the gallon-sized wine bottle bursts into a million pieces,
stars of tiny lights in brutally elegant fashion exploding over
the top of the victim’s head.
the victim continues to hold his fists up, ready
for another onslaught… but wavers
then stumbles and falls onto the pavement.
and the crowd…
gathers around, and watches the blood spread
out onto the concrete slabs, the breathing of
the victim quick and sporadic.
stunned, screaming…
one wonders if he’ll make it. an amubulance
has been called. 911… ironic that a hospital is
just across the street. but it’s a naval hospital
and who knows if they’ll come…
after all, he’s a civilian, a young black man who
seemingly got into a fight with another black man,
words were exchanged and then it happened…
half an hour later, perhaps twenty minutes
too late, they take him away. and the crowd
walks away.
never knowing if he died that day.
on that afternoon
sunny and clear and peaceful
elsewhere…
a mother was reading to her child
lovers huddled in a loving embrace
children innocently playing in the playground
someone discovered they were in love
while another might’ve died that day…
© 2005 Carlos Rull
