Pondering serial killings, sociopaths and society…

It’s always the hookers or children, isn’t it?

Sodomized, strangled, abused, assaulted.

Dismembered, disemboweled, decapitated and in the
extreme cases, dinner. Dahmer…dinner.
Alliterational coincidence? Perhaps…
Perhaps not.

Trophies taken: a necklace, a lock of hair,
liver in the freezer.

Bodies dumped…
shallow hasty graves, covered
with sad tree limbs or off rusting bridges
into muddy rivers rushing waters.

It’s always the white male middle class somewhat
intelligent socially impotent loners, isn’t it?

Law enforcement prides itself on it’s
superior profiling skill and ability to track
these “psychopathic sociopaths.” But yet…it always the
same blonde, blue jeans and apple pie kinda guy.

After they’re caught, carbon copy neighbors
give tape loop commentary, “He pretty much
kept to himself. Quiet, courteous if a bit…odd.”

Ayep…superior profiling abilities. Shooting fish in a barrel
can be considered fishing in its own way.

I’ll be probably branded a race traitor for saying this, but,
if white folk were a minority in this country
the cops would lay down a serious dragnet;
break down every white picket fence;
pull over every station wagon, pick up truck, mini-van and SUV;
raid every strip mall, parking lot;
“up against the wall motherfuckers” at every
Krispy Kreme, Duane Reade and Home Depot
from Levittown to the suburbs of Los Angeles,
from Taos, New Mexico to Bangor, Maine.

But these guys are white…middle class…Americans and the
cops can’t very well run around profiling and harassing
the fine, law abiding, upstanding folks whose society
innocently spawned these psychos. Law enforcement
must wait until the predator slips up, makes an error,
leaves an evidence shred at the burial site. Until then…he hunts
he hunts the children, the hookers and the runaways. And the
body count…grows. 10…20…30…40…

In fact, it’s growing now, somewhere.

Enough of the heavy duty
exploration and commentary upon
race, society and law enforcement therein.
It’s time for me to reveal the real reason
behind this poem, which is, that serial killers
are boring; boring and predictable;
boring, predictable and as bland as
margarine on untoasted white bread.

Always the same twisted depraved crimes committed by
the same twisted depraved criminal minds.

Since there’s nothing unique about their choice of victims,
and there’s nothing unique about the crime,
and there’s nothing unique about the criminal,
there’s no way to exclaim,
“Woah! Now…that’s uniquely fucked up!”

Whatever happened to creativity?

Why not run down random soccer moms with a maroon minvan or
kill them with repetitive blows from a high pressure air
cannon that shoots…soccer balls?

Why not train a group of rogue pit bulls, Rottweilers,
German Shepherds, Dobermans or really mean
Bassett Hounds to set upon and devour
rural dog catchers?

Why not rim the hats of the Shriners with ricin before the big parade?
Ahhh…what an image…dead Shriners slumped in miniature cars careening along
crowded sidewalks and Main Streets everywhere. The mayhem! The horror! The humor!

Why not kill poets, by making them eat their vacant words with…cheap marinara sauce?

Now…now…this is no Anarchist’s Cookbook dammit!
I don’t want to read a story about someone out there that
took my ideas and applied them in real life. Then
you’d be no better than the stupid kid from Connecticut
that copied a stunt he saw on TV and
nearly barbecued himself to death
on his family’s backyard hibachi.
You’d be a dumb ass at that point in time,
and we all know you have superior, albeit unrecognized
intellectual capabilities. You’re a smart man…don’t make
me sue you for copyright infringement. I got lawyers and
I’m not afraid to use them!


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