the real macabre

beneath the veneer of a stable self
beneath the thin veil required to
pass through our own everyday reality
s/he bears just beneath her/his skin
the gnashing of the teeth &
s/he does it so well that
one would never ever pick up on it---
and as americans,
we are fixated on our own morbid fascination with
death---
we go to theaters, we rent dvds,
we make pilgrimages to the actual sites where murders have taken place
(now turned into tourist traps) &
we breathe it all in deeply,
all in the attempt to get closer to the experience
without jumping right off the edge ourselves---
we smell, taste & writhe in the slashing, gushing blood,
knowing the names of all the famous serial killers by memory &
waiting for another to pop up in the 6 o’clock news
with butterflies in the stomach of mediocrity
biting our nails as if we were just about to ask someone out on a
date,
but s/he continues in her/his own routine,
having fed on the same culture that we have
having consumed everything thrown at them &
having grown weary of stimulants
that just don’t work anymore,
s/he is the next door neighbor of us all
s/he resides in the apartment down the hall
s/he may work in the schools with the children of the nation
s/he may wear the uniforms of those that are supposed to save us &
s/he may stand behind a pulpit or podium,
carnivorous & full of a need for
complete
vengeance---
and yet the next time it does happen
we sit in awe remarking
“what a travesty,”
listening to “experts” give their detailed histories
pontificating quotidian comments like
“if s/he hadn’t been a killer, s/he would have been able to do so much with
her/his life,”
as if not one of us knew where the real macabre lies.