it happens like this:
walking into work today, I was feeling incredible urgency. I listened to Sam Cooke to try to calm it away, but that hectic affliction was devouring me. And I know that if I don't take it down, I'll turn into a flea, just hop hop hopping in circles, never making much of anything.
So then I tried those slow breathes, the kind they make you do in yoga, where you're supposed to start the intake at your feet and pull it up up up to your scalp, then let it down again, turning the body into a giant pinball machine.
Then I walked the Connector, carrying all these heavy things.
I read about The Factory.
I listed to Sylvia Plath reading 15 poems from Ariel and fixated on the way she said ugly, getting lost in her voice (the absolute strength of being it carries) and how it so contrasts with her chronology.
None of these things took me away from that frantic feeling. So I decided to watch TV, but nothing of absolute mindlessness was playing, so I unfortunately watched the most terrifying thing I've ever seen,
and it happened like this:
this story takes place in Atlanta in an abandoned house that's completely destroyed-- rat droppings everywhere, the walls missing, a huge bucket of human feces in the bathroom-- and it's the scariest, nastiest place that exists. It's a pit to hell-- and it's a real place. this is real. this is an episode of 48 hours. this is a house, on a street, in a neighborhood.
in the backroom, there is a woman, naked, brutally raped, strangled, her mouth taped shut, her body mutilated. she'd been dead two days or so. her clothes had been cut off. on the door behind her head, someone wrote, "look bitch, I'm done" in red marker. the house takes 11 hours to process for evidence because it's so destroyed.
in the back of the house, they find one room that is still gross, but it's next to the bathroom, and it's a little more organized. there is a mattress on the floor, men's clothes and Air Jordans; there is a book on law and ethics and papers that have a man's name on them. he'd been sleeping there for at least two weeks, since he got out of rehab (at least that's what the woman who owns the house said).
at midnight, they are wrapping it up, checking all the drawers, doing a final walk through.
they realize the door that says, "look bitch, i'm done" is a closet, and it's nailed shut. the detective opens the door, and he finds another body. it's been there over 4 months. it's so decomposed, there are no fingerprints. the investigators can tell it's a woman and see that her neck and legs are also bound. her body, later identified as the man's ex-girlfriend, who disappeared two days after she filed a police report against him-- where he locked her in a room for 6 hours, forced her to take pills and smoke crack, and then prostituted her-- is also the friend of the first woman found.
her body had been there since before he "went to rehab" and he returned to the small house, sleeping just one room away.
/ / /
So now I'm here. I mean, I don't feel frantic anymore, just kind of totally terrified by humanity. And it is mostly unlikely that I will write any new poems today. Unless, you know, they're about depravity.