The signs of a psychopath are static yet dependable: charming demeanor, arrogance, lack of empathy, selfish, impulsive. But nothing ever happened: This is in your head. Manifest Destiny is an alluring concept based upon tyranny, justified by Christianity. Thump! A Cedar Waxwing flies hard into an anonymous glass door. The bird appears stunted, flapping on the patio floor then pushes into the sky to become a coal black fleck against the spectre of the sun. I put on my bordeaux cape and move deeper into the thick forest—delicate hands chafed. Rage arrives solo. The spring air: randy, exploited, fickle.
Flossing until gums bleed, meeting the enemy for coffee, taking shoes off at the door, memorizing O'Hara stanzas, removing the silk blouse, sliding between people in a crowd without causing a scene, answering the policeman's questions, playing rough, keeping quiet after the train wreck, noting failure, googling the hell out of it, throwing up, reconfiguring the sub-par, running, burning evidence, double-knotting, letting the rant turn uncomfortable, jilling around, dodging, returning as someone else, getting a divorce, turning into ash, rejecting self-righteous clarity, knocking before entering, defending freaks, dumping trash, using throwing stars, being a human sundial, double-crossing, asking for it.
With impressionable infant expecting response, with explanation for escape hatch, with Brooks Brothers suit and white teeth, with destructive judgments, with greased bicycle chain and slapstick joke, with illegal immigrants, with selfish plan for failure, with flawed itinerary and tripped-up perspective, with dried cum on cheek, with tenacious silence and inability to relate, with unworthy tactics, with privileged femme arm-in-arm, with eyes jealous of success, with heavy history and awe-inspiring panic, with uncanny valley, with differentiation but no principle, with humiliating bribe, with massive trust fund yet friendless, with careening obsession, with knack for stealth and force, with secret plague.