OUTSIDE: THE MIND OF A SERIAL KILLER

A Sheltered existence: 

Turning wheels, the sound of reverberence touches cheek, the sound of phlegm leaving tongue, lipping the euphemism into ambivalence, the sonnet played a disgrace to the echoing chords and a thousand minutes of time holding the door knob for her lady. 

Creaking cracks in the infrastructure hum melancholy’s sadness to start turning wheels on a long drive to eternity- or the supermarket, Sleep besieged by obligation and turmoil separates itself onto the pavement with the sole of my shoe. 

Leaving home, paying homage to the insistence of dairy products and grocers rights, a thousand dead cows to the waiting line of five dollars and change to distance self from ordinary existence.  

Dangling little signs give bargains to the handful, a desperado I’ve become to embark on frivolous living by the bayou of tile and dime. 

Child of five or so runs amuck to the sound of falling cans and batteries lesser known to the mother across the hall or isle singing not to “touch anything”, so he heard only “Touch anything”; constructively embarking on the line of his eyes shuffling the skirts of ladies he looks up for, they appreciate his gesture, and laugh for an amusement of childish reverie in no disturbance from cans and floor allotted by the fist he raises high claimed decadence, at five or so. 

A Large scowl comes complacent from a cow, or five hundred pound women who can’t hold herself or the 2 liter of lard she calls an ass, this wish she had for the dance as mine to freely float over head, unnoticed to see my change received and my lover leaving with my side, the creaking door and i split. 

Waking to the sound of ringing bells, or chiming semiconductors on the keyboard, the trick of her hands the cashier who has the right of no passage to your intimacy, but the touch of clean food; smiling i nod at her breast for nametag. ‘Take her home’ despite mine in hand lover. 

Sounding the bell of my moment i and the pocket a sensing touch of leather and the 100% cotton bill placed as due fair, in her hand and in my hand i meet her with swift touching momentum by exchange. 

What has the sound of true heartthrobs asking for the last bit of meal i could give, such as the resolute to their alcohol and a chance for salvation in the 100% proof of life, which i could call a lie, or they would call freedom in a flask. 
 

So you turn the page, to the shelter they hold shifting the pavement and wooden shoe questioning for the endearment of vehicle and pistonic pleasurable stress at 5000 miles per fucking hour, this the turning of the key, the churning of the boom cloud ripping meandering molecules to shreds by the sound of fire and pressure emitting the vast amount of fossilage you could call fast. 

Waiting for a green light or life encased by the shell of time blinking red that does not turn to mine eyes, I can only see the dance of a thousand seconds in the LCD on the screen telling time by the 60’s or so; This must be the wait of moments that eternity sets standards for, Leather as in rubber meets ground, a hound of a ton of metal that heap that rubs soft all over your body, or the road, the charisma of temperament on highway.  

Insights on the grassy fields next to the flying winds under wheeled foot, this spin or blur frolicking as the rabbit who misses his hut under the newly grounded sidewalk, smelling little frothy fogs in the dew pointed morning, a minor justification of the darwinistic spirituality called neutrality.  

Watching state walkers peddle by the list of gifts and an endless quip of capitalistic perfection to buy your heart or the heart of the sunset behind them, That is a swap meet, not to swap neatly the right of ownership more so the swap of your stuff to their things and the thing-ly manner that beholds nothingness; would you call this bartering? 

And, when the next light holds my time to wait with my hand in her ladies, I owed her nothing; we just could feel the warmth of a similar annoyance on top of the streetlight watching us not tumble over pedestrians.  

The flash of green made foot and rising to the turn of road that said street sign at “Friendly lane”; this was home in a nice common quiet street by the side of the prisms of neon-istic lumber and the chalice of drunkards who give away quarters more than they take.  

A grass lawn, with a friendly neighbor fence that chains links to a lock and the gate smiling shiny the ricochet of the sunlight slowly passing to let the vampires out; a pergola perhapsing the facting matter, coherent and dire. 

________________________________________________ 

Street sign divine sorted as to the confusion by red light green light, a few Hispanics and one white man surface through a crowd on soft sidewalk, hesitant all post through a countenance, tricking triggers flick the dimed light and a thousand speeding blur’s whip. 

What is it calling, in the faint backing of the sky, whispers soft, larger than obesity itself, towards drummed lobe? 

Short shirt nice ass, there turning the wink of her over the shoulder smirk at my face, and do with a glance, pass the buck the shirt and the shawl let the rain spill semen on the fruitless, or what is it into the wind? 

Stained my shirt on the ground a whisper she does to me, the little heckle of the divided highway that would separate us-the five thousand mile stretch, the dimin’; dollars of earth’s euthanized diligence, wasted, I heard the sound from somewhere bigger than obesity. 

Across parking lot, the paved desert of beauty, a concrete jungle to the lovers delight, that fragmented juxtaposition, a thousand drops of rain still poor on the heads over yonder, mine eyes I cannot see without my x-ray vision, or the Hawaiian shirt that I loved to toggle around my waist-necks or. 

Subway, Sitting, the only right of passage, the burden of what is upright, the upside of down; what is down, the around, holding to the pole while the little dogs run amuck asking for the lot of cents that might be in pockets, hidden, aloof, dropped from palm to the next or the sewer by the beauty of vomit, or venison slighted sort of as of the rode met it’s maker furry tailed-taled and Disney-like: “Yo, man, give me a quarter?” 

Written in the First Chapter of the Book of Alfonso: Creaking cracks in the infrastructure hum melancholy’s sadness to start turning wheels on a long drive to eternity- or the supermarket, Sleep besieged by obligation and turmoil separates itself onto the pavement with the sole of my shoe, the bottom or dregs of the filing, filing the categories or categorizations of people.  

Going nowhere, on the sub-what?, the determinant of a junction pluralized by the mass’ conjuncting, and refracting a thousand stares in once glimpse to get to the center of the city, a mutual standing point, the art museum, a mosaic of contrived thought, or what have it - conjured recurrence of the blasphemy in creation, or over production, the function. 

A thousand and one smiles, a rhapsody of the distinct intrinsic value of looters holding refuge to the vastness of this reputation, building the reputation by listening to a lawyer’s and or the sentient business-man’s reputation, with his Cell’ phone by the pay phone it’s wires around his neck, something sweet about the screaming that doesn’t release “Keep the Phone in your hand you lazy Bogart fuck rapped up in your own persecution”.  

Little Rain drops still squander the pavement, repeating themselves to the sounds of voices as vices telling them to continue swimming for themselves, this sound of spilling rouge on dark sidewalk winking at the hidden adolescent running by, his voice the voice of a child as a child he was, by the likes of his pattering breaths running away from his witnessing my justification. 
 

And to the maker of tiled divider I see the thousand clicks of stiletto heels kicking pavement after, the lower side of the underside I leave. 

Up Fifth I jest to myself the last I knew to be of the evening, 2 a.m. the evening spent with the collar of the thief himself stealing the last bit of oxygen in his time, the moment, I could but only wish to know the direction of conformity at this time- but ah- alas! I can feel the winds of change; left on Montgomery, or something of that legislature to sleep, where last night she did not wake.  

Alas! To Confucius, a wiser word spoken in my mind, I will call him so, this I plead not for him and his textile lighted by fluorescence and tea bag.  

____________________________________________________________________ 
 

Sirens and horns burn the tango into the reflection of the windows, turning the passivity of plugged ears in café; so bourgeois to plight the passing of other’s lives, the last foot note to separate the demons from the hard core Caucasian front, he thought, knowing of his words, lesting through the apron he blanketed himself holding right hand drawn; homosexual,  “…excusssse me ssssir, may I get you another esssspresssso?” his naked eyes staring temperamentally annoyed at my refraction in thought. 

Jingling bells again, ringing in the fabricated life of java and homeliness to, “here’ss your change.” –interrupted. 

Sirens and horns - Sirens and horns burn the tango into the reflection of the windows, turning the passivity of plugged ears in café, so bourgeois to plight the passing of other’s lives, the last foot note to separate the demons from the hard core Caucasian front, he thought, knowing of his words, lesting through the apron he blanketed himself holding right hand drawn; homosexual- A lost little praise to give self for worth, in trembling at knowing wordlessness better than speech. 

Turning upward at ceiling, dimmed lights and half moon catheters plugging hormones and protruding life-spans; them holding life insurance plans close to heart, a pen shuffled through hand seeing femme break an inspiration in half by the loss of utensil.  

Itching neck, the scratch to be itched upside Ekoli virus’ on neck, and the bit of Tuberculosis siphoning through the gourmet coffee filer so suave’.  

Sirens and horns - Sirens and horns burn the tango into the reflection of the windows, by deflection a conquest for sound establish itself it’s own prism a bit stronger than light, bouncing cuffs and the ambulette piercing it’s sound through plain glass windows, one already two, three, four, five or losing count by the handful of tea, and blaring sound. 

_____________________________________________________ 
 

A section in reflection of the vast properties on human aesthetics holds powers incongruent to anything of the variable we call contentment, or the Americanized dream in it’s consistency, this the basis of thought provoking one step farther from civilization on a bus; diesel has it’s own heart?  

Sort of a short bus but maybe not as malnourished as those you think to be driving the mentally unprepared, sort of sparse as the demographics to genius. 

A bus again, I thought watching trees lean and tossed pass by, whipping, tuned in F.M., the digital dial turned half left, and eagerly pro-.  

“We could’ve saved it but we were too damn cheap.” Repeating over in my head, my tongue enque, the words to the viable Vonnegut-us, and it syllabus synchronized in the lovely bark whisked by the molecular smoke posting carbon in high velocity by the side of green acre. 

Simplicity sat not amidst the beginning of street sign and decadent turbulence I thought, more so in the make shift wheel barrel,  or photo-voltaic’s, or solar energy brightening to the retina, enlarging pupils to dilate earthen puberty- one mustn’t save the world.  

Thinking of a chance mention of the solar energies without lethargy of mind, nor angles of dyslexic concubine’s en-serenade of the motion for greener pastures and toasted forests. 

Poli- has nothing on the revolution to beauty, or is it the chance occurrence of familiar faces chanting heroisms of prior and to and fro, so goes this, the beauty of convenience and a dial American voter republic; radio F.M. . 

Chance this: “We could’ve saved it but we were too damn cheap,” how about that?, but involved in it’s station, the pearly whites resoluting to an infinite resource of Poli-tech invites quoting random passages of lunatics with reasoning; what is rational thinking, hearsay they say, or a lackadaisical stare of overwhelming beauty in the sunset before eyes, and purple gazes outward bound the institution of bark and infinite.  

Such as proactive self- a dalmation- may there be the spent honor of motivation and one step to move the policing state to a question of ethics and lacking barbarianism, not the hypocrisy of it’s anarchy, nor to the likes of chaos’s beauty, but oh- I think so: “We could’ve saved it but we were too damn cheap,” He wrote as I played it again in head and hand, the making of covered mouth, and single celled penny pockets.  

Making amends to the window sill, snot and a sneeze the mere justification of sentimentality, and dust particles rising high, reflecting indulgence on the tip of pin and purple clouds frowning at the withered Sunrise. 

Speckles of reflected light gave way to the endearment of doe and fern, a breeze through the hair of pine and poplar, crankshaft, fender wing, all so the repercussions of taxing itself the lacking taxation.  

No missing out on the evolution of the carbonic messenger sales, nor to the like of it’s creator the whistler of the Eks On Val and Deez shop for fossil and refuse, what weaning towards is prolonging only to touch it’s ample angles of selfism turned rotting by an overly socialized report.  

Save!  

Saved! 

This; the prologue to a dynasty in rituals fore-mentioned and relaxed, the suf-fern wane of a dimension pro-active in historic etiquette entrusted by woodwork, and Thoreau- Driven on short bus pistonic variables and timing chords wrestle together the Darwinist engine.  
 
 

An egg 
 
 

Scott Casale of Upstate New York, a writer by mind, inarticulate transporter by trade. His intention with writing is often amazement, more for the absurdity of prosthetic inclination, and for your romantic self indulgence. Not wholly published, but certainly well behaved and belly ached. His attention to the theory of being a starving artist is as detailed as nay the attempt. Surreality is something Sunday morning never offered enough of for him, so his bemusement of it is easily rendered Profound. His email is Tr1pm0nk8@gmail.com.