“What the artist owes the world is his work; not a model for living.” - Harry Crews
Something went wrong in his head
This smiling cherub boy. Somewhere
Between the birthing cry and his
Teens, he got whacky notions about
Love and sex and women, how
They scorned him, except for the worst
Of them and he sort of went nuts, he
Would later describe it as to a reporter.
And began to search them out
The bad ones, like rotten fruit in
Lovely bowls that painters might
Be seduced to paint, their lips
Bright red like apples, their eyes
The color of grapes, the fuzz
On their cheeks like peaches of course.
He would find them at night
Standing on the city corners where
The light is always diffused as
If in a film noir starring Humphrey
Bogart, under street lights.
The passing cars whose beams
Would light them up like bright
Objects at a carnival and he would
Stop and one would lean in and
Begin the negotiations: “Blow job
Twenty dollars, all the way, fifty,
What’re you looking for, hon?”
And then they would drive off and
Never been seen or heard from again
Until some guy walking his dog
Or some kids riding their bikes went
Off into the bushes to smoke daddy’s
Cigarettes and discover them.
This went on for years and when the
Police finally caught him, as they say
Dead to rights, their blood on his
Hands he admitted to all the others
They did not know about – these missing
Women whom no one missed and
Where he left them and so on. It was
All true, they found the bones where he
Said they’d find them, and they found
The cheap jewelry and plastic shoes
And so on and so forth, exactly as he
Described. Then convicted, they put him on
Death row and he waited out his days
Reading the Bible and so on and so forth
Until it came the night he was to take
That final walk dressed all in white
Like some Jesus, only his hair cut short
His face shaven, his teeth brushed.
And as he lay there upon the gurney
In the same position as if they’d nailed
Him to a cross, his arms straight out to
The side, his ankles strapped down so the
Only thing he could move was his head
And waited for the first of the needles
To enter his vein, he thought of a
Happy childhood, of playing with the
Other kids, war and cowboys and so forth
Of the little blonde girl who lived next
Store who first raised in him the suspicion
That he was somehow different. A man
Walked in and spoke his name and
Nothing more, except, “You are going
To feel a poke” – like the time his
Mother had taken him to the doctor.
And all the faces of all the women
Their lips painted so brightly red
Their eyes dark as grapes came
To him in that last moment before
His life began to evaporate and like
So many others he is forgotten
And they are forgotten except on
Rare occasions when they are remembered.
Some lives are just more tragic than others and the tragedy seems only greater with those who are blessed with great talent.
