My town is an Autumn blood-bath.

During the car ride home from church,

you can catch glimpses

of bodies hung under the influence of blind men.

Abdomen flesh sliced, gaping.

Hollow interior openly exposed,

draining thick liquid ignorance;

the color of red wine,

staining garage floors.

Lips stretched from ear to ear

snap a picture

with prized possession.

Laugh, and crack a beer.

Paint son’s neck

from the pond pooling

all so gracefully

onto the garage floor.

Dim the lights,

until the human eye

cannot conceive such exhibits.

dowse in honey goodness

then sprinkle with rose petals.

and

I laughed,

when Juliet picked up the dagger

romance so sharp we should pierce our pulse.

When childhood fairytales,

aren’t really all that pure.

When I received

postcards,

from the local lynching.

When the front doors,

were drenched

in the blood of the lamb.

When we

blow each other's heads off,

for our country.

And

I swear,

it all looked so sweet.