Is this it,

my final meal?

[stabbing steak]

The house of the war den knows,

but they have no interest in low lives…

They’re the ones that set this up,

it was a big production,

I was staked out…

[slicing steak]

I’m dead meat,

the cost of living…

I was taken down,

bound by the ties,

and staked in-place.

[tearing into steak]

Draining blood, sweat, and tears,

they squeeze the bottom line…

The interest bait is personal,

I’m the collateral damage,

my claim, they stake…

[chewing steak]

I will lose,

as they take control.

To wave the almighty bill,

is the power of capital persuasion,

where the stakes are highest…

[forking green beans]

I wanted it all,

just like them.

The fortune awaited,

and somebody had to make it,

said the green-eyed snake.

[raising green beans]

He's cold-blooded,

with expensive taste…

This head with a body,

carves a twisted path,

and shapes greener grass.

[chomping green beans]

He knows the landscape,

and he’s always at his prime.

Looking down on his bounty,

equipped with powerful assets,

the snake faces the swamp.

[Spitting green bean stems]

He strikes with stealth,

squeezing the life from his prey.

Pulled in as the snake contracts,

the victim struggles for survival.

Looks like frog legs tonight.

[poking baked potato]

In the belly of the beast,

dead spirits drift by.

Digesting my fate,

I see the future waste,

lost in the cash hole.

[splitting the potato]

Time divided,

to believe it, or not.

Two sides to every story,

I question this and that,

us and them answer.

[mashing potato]

Open-minded,

you might see.

In my opinion,

there’s always opposition,

and numbers will be crunched.

[consuming potato]

The power of a golden fist,

will supply demand.

Force-fed,

a pile of crap,

that I eat…

[facing pie]

The dream,

perceived…

Make it…

You will…

Get your slice…

[smelling pie]

So close,

you can taste it…

Time plus energy,

life plus savings,

always negative.

[flattening pie]

It’s on you,

just eat it…

Start over?

But will you?

Can you make it?

[tossing pie]

I’m just sick,

and tired.

Washing,

tons of shit,

from my head.

Some food for thought,

one percent of the human race,

has taken charge of the consumer.

That leaves the other 99 percent,

the product of their debt…

The quality of one life,

has become more worth…

The quantity of human lives,

has become worth-less…

[tooth picking]

So I ask again,

was that it,

my final meal?

The subject of childhood nightmares.

Watch it! Your days are numbered.

In addition, he cannot be stopped.

Inside out

Sun bound,

I reach for the sky.

Explosive lightning strikes,

suspending my body mid-flight.

Vaulted by the shockwave,

I’m tossed...down!

With a heavy strike,

the dream ends.

I awaken…!?

“You stupid bitch!”

Father spits psychotic slurs,

holding a gun to my head…

Out of control,

his firearm shakes,

chattering in my face…

“This is your fault!”

Father blames…

I shutter,

and stutter,

“d-d-dad!?”

Bloodshot,

his eyes bulge,

ready to pop…

Inflamed with fury,

he lowers the firearm,

and melts with despair.

Now he turns around,

and walks away.

With a twist,

the doorknob turns-

“You’ll pay for this.”

Promising vengeance,

father made a swift exit,

and closed the door.

Alone, in the dark,

I was left.

Nobody

Tangled in confusion,

I stumble from bed,

on father’s psycho path…

He stops at the end of the hall,

facing the family photo…

My voice cracks,

“dad?”

He snaps,

“I hate you!”

[smash n’ crash!]

He strikes the photo,

shattering the glass layer,

and tearing the image apart…

Blood drips from his knuckles,

and taps on the jagged droppings.

Facing the wall,

enraged,

he pulses…

Behind his back,

I suffer through the wrath.

Flashbacks of father’s tongue-

*flicker-flick*

He ignites a cigarette...

Taking a hard drag,

still, facing the wall,

he huffs and puffs.

Bull faced,

he turns my way,

displaying disappointment.

Within a smoky snarl,

he looks down-

“Damn you…”

Praying for my demise,

he tips and flips the handgun…

Re-facing the family-

[shatter-clatter!]

He strikes again,

dropping the photo…

Encased in glass spike-sickles,

and crushed under the fractured frame,

the family portrait crumpled to shreds…

Father suckles on his bloody knuckles,

spilling the bottled beer in his hand.

Casually crushing the wreckage,

he stomps away.

Scarred

In the kitchen,

I see father there…

He’s in the refrigerator,

grumbling and rumbling-

“where’s all the beer!?

Swinging his firearm,

father slams the door shut…

Gazing insanely and blazing fury,

his eyes burn through my head…

I answer over a barking dog,

“I don’t even drink-”

“SHUT UP!”

Father erupts…

He’s about to-

[SHATTER-SPLATTER!]

His bottle smacks the wall,

just missing my head…

Focused on the damage,

his eyes circle my presence…

Did he not see-

(Lightning flashes)

[crackle-KAPOW!!!]

Thunder quakes…

Inside,

the walls shake…

Father’s distracted,

focused on the table…

Something glimmers…

He holds it to the light,

squinty-eyed…

In pain,

he thrashes-

“Stupid bitch!”

He trashes-

[clink-tink]

-a ring?

It still rolls…

Around me,

it spirals,

and stops at my feet…

My mother’s wedding-

“You’ll pay for this…”

Father promised,

looking insane,

eyes on me.

He sucks…

He smokes…

He blows…

He chokes…

Head down,

he sulks…

Then a flash of light,

he looks, wide-eyed.

To the living room,

he runs, off…

Insecure

Facing the window,

father stood with his firearm,

scanning the outside world…

Behind his back, I stood,

cautiously observing…

In the pane of glass,

does he see?

My reflection-

*flicker-flick*

Facing a flame,

he lights up…

“Peek-a-boo…”

He sucks-

“I see you”

Within a smoky sigh,

father whispers to the window…

Stepping away from his line of sight,

I slip inside the shadows…

Restless,

father’s gun sh-

“you can run-”

[click-clack]

“-but you can’t hide…”

Speaking in riddles,

and fully cocked,

father’s mad.

I swallow-

[thump]

Car door…

Mom’s home…

Father turns in-

“ready or not…”

He inhales.

“Here I come…”

He exhales.

Evil eyed,

he’sss-

Gone

In reverse,

I step back…

Father charged in my direction,

now a fully matured madman.

I’m running for my life…

Riding the wall-

FALL!

Tuck and roll,

down the long hall-

Launching into my room,

eyes scan the closed-door…

Nothing but silence followed…

I peer through the keyhole…

Mom was just getting in,

diverting the chase.

She faces the firearm,

words on the tip of her lip,

but she can’t speak…

Shaken up, in shock,

she sputters,

“p-p-plea-”

[POP!!!]

Mom’s shot!!!

Her blood sprays…

On the floor,

she stays...

In slow motion,

I fall back…

“MOM!”

Enraged,

and mentally maimed,

I ride the shock wave…

“Did you think you could hide!”

Father’s voice penetrates the walls,

and echoes between the gunshot,

still ringing through my head.

Back in the keyhole,

I see my father’s still, there,

hovering over mother’s body…

With his head planted on the wall,

smeared in mother’s blood,

father broke down-

“You made me do this!”

He blames me,

and I would pay,

as promised…

On the psycho’s path,

he slowly crept forward,

approaching my bedroom.

Head shot

His shadow enters,

below the door,

it slips inside.

I fall back…

It chases…

I’m cornered…

It swallows…

Consumed,

in the shadows skin,

the fear factor ratchets-

[clatter-click-clack]

He’s here…

[creeek-thud]

The door swings open!

With slow and heavy steps,

father crept forward…

[thump-bump]

I shout,

“DAD!”

[thump-bump]

“Please!”

[thump-bump]

“Why are you doing this!”

[thump-bump]

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

[thump]

[bump]

At arm’s length,

he stops with a heavy sigh…

Father posed in a haze of shade,

cocking his neck…

In the darkness,

he stands still,

smoking…

Gun in hand,

his trigger finger shakes…

Like a rattlesnake,

poised to strike…

[lightning flashes]

Silenced,

I can’t speak.

[distant thunder rumbles]

Father raised his firearm…

He turns to-“goodbye son.”

Slow motions he made…

My eyes solidified-

[click-clack]

To the gun…

Father quivers and cries...

The gun is on his head!

He’s about to-

[POP!!!]

The bullet pounded father’s skull,

and blood showered-

[THWUMP-BUMP!]

Down,

on the floor,

he twitches…

His firearm flips,

and finally, it flops…

My jaw dropped,

shock locked...

To his body,

I rush…

He’s lifeless…

Deep inside his eyes,

beyond the bloody shot,

I see my father’s twisted spirit…

He spirals through the inner depths,

and plunges into a sea of flames.

As he reaches for my hand,

he sinks to the bottom,

and vanishes…

“DAD!”

I cry out,

but it’s too late…

He was already gone,

and I was left,

alone.

Transparent

I tried to cover my father’s body,

but my hands couldn’t grasp the sheet…

That’s when I made the mind-blowing discovery…

Somebody was sleeping in my bed,

but not just any-body,

it was my body!

There’s a hole,

in my head,

bullet sized.

I was still,

dreaming?

In denial,

and deep shock,

I back away…

Into the mirror,

I turn to see,

nothing…

That’s when it hit me,

father wasn’t trying to kill me,

he already did, and I was a ghost.

Ever since the dream ended,

I was just dead weight.

In my father’s eyes,

I was invisible.

As I followed,

he never knew,

I was right there,

within his shadow,

the whole time.

I.N.S.I.G.H.T.

24 hours later…

[heavy rumble]

They’re inside…

I’m week…

Feeling numb…

They’re close…

I feel someone…?

“We have a heart-”

(beep…beep)

It’s dark...

In the light,

I awaken…

On a hospital bed,

my body rested…

I survived the-

“welcome back…”

A doctor greeted…

I spoke of my nightmare…

How I followed my father…

How he grew into a madman…

How he destroyed the family…

How he killed my mother…

How he killed himself…

How he killed me…

How I saw everything,

through the eyes of my spirit…

As I confirmed the insanity of my ghost story,

the doctor placed his hand on my shoulder and interrupted,

“I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this son,

but that’s a true story…”

The nightmare began when the demon reached into my home, pressed his claws into my skull, and tossed my body into this transparent lockbox. Now, here I remain, trapped within the darkest corner of the demon’s lair awaiting the end of my time. I knew that I was nothing more than brain food to him, but I cherished life and missed the freedom I once took for granted. I was constantly searching for a way out, but the demon had a clear view of my head and his guarded position ensured there was no hope for escape. He was built as buff as an oak tree and stood higher than the summit of the summer sunrise. Guerilla style, he posed with one fist against the other, forcing his billowing biceps to arc in the shape of a battle-ax. War-torn and lopsided, the left side of his face has fallen in defeat and the right side was permanently held up in defense. Braided horns twisted up from the top of his scalp, fashioned in the likeness of the dark overlord himself. Deep folds within his forehead sat tightly stacked atop the edge of his brow, partially smothering his line of sight. When he peered into the box, it was clear that his eyes have become consumed by deep voids of perpetual darkness. With his jaw half-cocked, deeply decayed and crooked teeth jutted from the jagged end of his lower lip. On top of all that, demonic noises pulsed through every smothered breath he strained to suck through his flaring nostril flaps. Whatever hellish firepower was responsible for spawning this monstrosity, I was sure it contained the very essence of evil itself. With my eyes pressed against the demon’s head, the hammer of justice struck with a thunderous crash, and the nightmare better known as Jury duty suddenly became all too real. If the demonic demeanor of the defendant wasn’t frightening enough, I would soon have to confront the mental monster dwelling within this madman’s mind. The demon’s name…I mean, the defendant’s name is Charles C. Birden; he comes from the wrong side of town where nothing ever goes right. He’s on trial for the murder of Grace S. Forchun; she came from the right side of town where nothing ever goes wrong.

The trial was in full swing when the prosecutor stepped up to the jury box and played an audio device containing a prerecorded phone call. (((“911 can I help you?”—“there’s a huge black man in my neighbor’s window! Oh! And I think…he’s got a gun! (explicit language) Hurry! he’s headed for the back door!”—“We’re on our way…” The prosecutor lowered the audio device and spoke with a firm voice, “This phone call to the emergency dispatch center was placed by a concerned neighbor when she noticed a dark and mysterious man peering inside Miss Forchun’s living room window. Minutes later when the police arrived, the defendant was seen fleeing Miss Forchun’s residence. Following a short pursuit, he was quickly subdued and detained. When the arresting officer asked the defendant about the fresh bloodstains soaked into every part of his body, the defendant simply replied, “she already dead...”--“Who’s dead?” the officer snapped back. At which time the defendant extended his finger in the direction of Miss Forchun’s home and repeated, “she already dead.” The police officer’s followed his lead and entered Miss Forchun’s home. They discovered her lifeless body on the bedroom floor. She was found in a puddle of blood with a single gunshot wound to the head. The detectives would find the impression of a foreign body within Miss Forchun’s bloodstain, and Mr. Birden fit the mold in every way.”

The prosecutor paced the length of the jury box and practically shouted in our faces, “With an extensive criminal past, the defendant has spent the majority of his life either running from the law or locked up behind bars. His recent actions prove this murderous monster’s sick and twisted history threatens the future light of peace in the free world.” The prosecutor faced the defendant before pressing on, “Please don’t be swayed by anything other than the evidence that is clearly displayed before your very eyes.” After a life-sized image of the bloody murder scene was placed on display, the prosecution continued, “The man responsible for this horrific act of evil could only be Charles C. Birden. Here’s your proof…” The prosecutor held an enlarged photo of Mr. Birden’s bloodied mug shot and placed it beside the image of the crime scene. Then he confronted the jury and raised his voice again, “This ‘piece of human waste’ was caught with the blood of the victim soaked into every part of his being. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there’s no denying the fact that this man is guilty…” Facing the bloodied photos on display, the prosecutor concluded, “…as you can see for yourselves.”

As the prosecution rested, I closed my eyes, and images of the defendant’s soiled hands collided with the horrific display of the victim’s dead body, and the two scenes mingled as one. This is when the story came together and I was convinced this man was responsible for killing that lady. This case was over as far as I was concerned. I couldn’t wait to lock up ‘Charlie the lady slayer’ and send him back to the dungeon of darkness with the rest of his sick and twisted thug brothers. I knew I wasn’t alone when Mr. Grudgy leaned in and forced a hard whisper into my ear, “this guy’s goin’ down!” I nodded in agreement as the defense stepped up to present their case, as silly as that sounds.

The defense silently paced the floor before she began speaking with a loud and exaggerated voice, “Yes! Mr. Birden was seen peering through Miss Forchun’s window. Yes! He entered her home by force. Yes! He was caught running from the crime scene. Yes! he was covered in Miss Forchun’s blood. And yes, on the surface it would appear Mr. Birden is guilty of cold-blooded murder. But let me remind you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, all is not always how it appears, and the defendant is the perfect example of this fact. Let’s begin with some history…Mr. Birden is a thief and he always has been. This way of life has run through his blood for generations. Stealing things from the more fortunate members of society has always been Mr. Birden’s single means of survival. When he was seen peering through Miss Forchun’s window, he was making sure the coast was clear. When no activity was detected, Mr. Birden proceeded to break inside. As he entered the bedroom to gather Miss Forchun’s possessions, he tripped over her dead body and fell into a pre-existing blood puddle. When he realized he just stumbled onto an undiscovered crime scene, Mr. Birden ran for his life, knowing he would be the obvious suspect. Allow me to refer back to Mr. Birden’s exact words the day he was caught fleeing Miss Fortune’s home. He said ‘she’s already dead’. He was not implying that he just killed her. He was implying that she was already dead when he stumbled over her body. Please keep in mind that the defendant has the mentality and communication skills of a 10-year-old child. Mr. Birden may have a low I.Q., but I’ll have you know that he has a higher maturity level and a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever encountered. Even though he can barely take care of himself, he manages to care for his aging mother. I’m sorry to say that the person you thought was a vicious monster is no more than a lost child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only crime Mr. Birden committed that day was breaking and entering. He may be guilty of robbing people of their possessions, but he is certainly not guilty of robbing people of their lives. There’s no doubt that Miss Forchun’s life was taken, but I can assure you, Mr. Birden didn’t take it. What the prosecution has failed to expose is the dark area surrounding the spotlight that was strategically placed on Mr. Birden’s head. It’s time to shine a light on the real monster that was lurking within the shadows and expose the true face of death in this case.”

The defense held up a sealed evidence bag containing the murder weapon. “This is the gun that was used to end the life of Mrs. Forchun. You might assume this gun belongs to the defendant, but Mr. Birden has never owned nor has he ever been in the possession of a firearm. And no, he was not holding a gun by Miss Forchun’s window as the 911 caller would have you believe. He was carrying this...” The defense held up another evidence bag. “The police found this crowbar in Mr. Birden’s hand after they detained him. The only gun they found was the one used to end the life of Miss Forchun. With that in mind, think about the fact that forensics never found a single grain of gun residue on the defendant’s hands, and his prints were never found on the murder weapon. The only prints they ever found were traced back to the registered owner. And yes, they found gun residue on the guilty party’s hand. The person I speak of is none other than Miss. Forchun herself.”

After sipping from her water glass the defense cleared her throat and continued, “I think we can all agree that Miss. Forchun was a privileged woman. From luxurious cars to glimmering diamonds, she had all the possessions every woman could ever desire, and then some. But the one thing that Miss. Forchun needed was the one thing that she failed to obtain, and that one thing was love. She was known by her associates to be lonely, depressed, and even suicidal at times. Yes, Miss. Forchun was at the end of her rope and no longer had the strength to hold on. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to see past the guilty illusion the prosecution has placed within your heads and see the picture as it truly is. Mr. Birden did not kill this woman, she killed herself…”

After the prosecution and the defense made their closing arguments, I entered the jury room with a new outlook on the case. Mr. Birden was no longer the guilty demon of this nightmare. I now believed that the only demon responsible for taking Miss. Forchun’s life was the one living inside her head. As everything came into focus, I was confident the other jurors would feel the same. The head speaker opened the discussion with a deep and commanding voice, “I don’t buy the suicide story, I think that guy’s guilty as hell…” I couldn’t believe my ears as they went around the table and each juror expressed their opinion, “Yeah, I think he planted that gun in her hand, he’s defiantly guilty.” As I thought about gun residue, the next juror spoke out, “Yes, he wore gloves and planted the gun, guilty.” I asked how Mrs. Forchun obtained the gun residue on her hand and one of the jurors responded, “He must’ve smeared it on her skin, who knows? He looks like a psycho to me and I think he’s guilty.” As the verdict continued in unison around the table, I was stuck on the gloves. They never found gloves. After the eleventh juror blurted out guilty, the decision was partially unanimous. With twenty-two eyes pressing against my skull, I almost wanted to go with the flow and just say the one word they all wanted to hear, but I remained silent. Facedown, I hid my thoughts until the head juror placed the ultimatum on my shoulders with a strict and heavy voice, “well, guilty or not?” I slowly raised my eyes to the jury and said the words nobody wanted to hear, “Not guilty.”

Through a roomful of jeers and heavy sighs, I had to not only defend my decision but defend a man with guilt written all over his face. I stood up and raised my voice over the useless chatter, “If someone can find these mysterious gloves that were used to not only cover up fingerprints but defend against the residual gun powder, then I might believe we’re dealing with a guilty man. Until then, we need to take a step back and reexamine the evidence.” 22 frustrated eyes rested on my head as I sifted through the jumble of papers sprawled out before me. Mr. Grudgy shouted something about ‘stupid gloves’ when I found the statement that stood out the most in the trial and proceeded with my defense, “This was a significant statement from Miss Forchun’s co-worker, so I ask that everyone please listen carefully: [Mrs. Forchun was very distant and had little to say today. Her response to my every question was the same, ‘I just don’t care anymore.’ Before leaving the building, she said goodbye in a tone that would suggest I would never see her again. Through the 30 plus years that I’ve worked by Miss. Forchun’s side, this is the deepest depression she has ever expressed...] After reading the statement aloud, I was stricken with a boost of confidence and expressed myself accordingly, “The evidence doesn’t lie people. The psychological evidence proves that Miss Forchun was a victim of personal demons and the physical evidence proves Mr. Birden was not one of them. I stand by my vote of not guilty and that’s my final decision.” The energy suddenly shifted and another juror spoke up, “I guess I just looked past all the true evidence when I saw those pictures of Mr. Birden covered in that woman’s blood. I’m also changing my vote to not guilty.” Then another followed, “me too, not guilty.” That’s when Mr. Grudgy knocked his chair back against the wall and took an aggressive stance. With his knuckles firmly pressed against the table, hidden rage and hatred shot from his lip as he spat into the circle of jury members, “are you people stupid! Did you see that guy!? He looks like a killer, talks like a killer, and was covered in bloodstains like a killer! I’m not putting my life at risk because you people can’t see the facts! Just look at him, he’s big, and he’s ugly, and he’s black!” Mr. Grudgy took a deep breath before apologizing to Mr. Jackson. A highly agitated Mr. Jackson took a deep breath of his own and responded, “I don’t need your apology sir…my people are not vicious ghetto hounds out to take your life Mr. Grudgy, we’re just human beings trying to make a life of our own. My culture has struggled for generations to climb from the depths of this hole drilled into the structure of society, and every time we reach for the ledge of equality, it seems there’s always someone to step on our fingers. So I don’t need your apology Mr. Grudgy, I just need you to help lift me up, so I can stand on equal ground…” Following a deep sigh, Mr. Jackson concluded, “As far as the case is concerned, I’m ashamed to say that I am also guilty of viewing Mr. Birden as a vicious monster…But I’m man enough to admit that I was mistaken. I’m changing my vote to not guilty.”

Excluding Mr. Grudgy, the remainder of the jury voted not guilty. Following a brief silence, the jury head spoke like a game show host awaiting the final answer, “well Mr. Grudgy, what’s it gonna be? Is Mr. Birden guilty…or not?” Mr. Grudgy choked on a sudden outpouring of tears. Facing the table, he spoke with a low and monotonous voice, “My daughter…She was 8 years old…Shhh…” Mr. Grudgy soaked uncontainable sorrow into the sleeve of his shirt before going on, “She was right outside…I saw her…then I…I turned my back…Then, everything was silent…I called her name, but shhh…” Mr. Grudgy lifted his head and exposed the perpetual sadness streaming from his eyes as he strained to go on, “I called her name but she didn’t answer…” Anger fueled the rant that followed, “He kidnapped her…He raped her…He took my little girl’s life! Damn him!” Mr. Grudgy pounded his fist against the table. Following a brief struggle he managed to calm his voice, “They uhhh…They eventually caught the guy…He was a black man…And I vowed to kill that bastard for what he did to my baby girl…I had a raging desire to rip that man’s head off and stomp it into the deepest pit’s of hell until he was nothing more than a pile of broken bones and bits of charred ash. Of course, I could never do such a thing, but the anger and the blame lingered on, and on. Every black man I encountered was guilty of killing my daughter, and I wanted each and every one of them to pay for her suffering. In this case, it didn’t matter how much evidence you presented, or how innocent that man truly is, I still wanted him to be guilty.” Mr. Grudgy wiped away the residual tears before concluding, “Anyway, I can no longer blame every black man for a crime they had nothing to do with, especially Mr. Birden. My vote is not guilty…”

This bruise on society

it’s a sick world

the illness spreads

within heavy hands

the power thrives

behind the mask

evil hides

shielded…

Vulnerable lives

bound by the force

freedom and life jeopardized

faced with sudden suffocation

fearful impressions ground-in

excessive weight presses on

and on, and on, and on,

grave shouts burst out,

“I can't breathe!"

(life struggle)

"Helll-

Plea-

A

I

R

!?

Exhausted

final breath, taken

as the sick world dies before their eyes…

A head

ground…dead

Bi-force

Lost

at home

you know

where the heart is

broken

down

words, drop

in, non-stop

(pleas)

“God?”

(echoes)

pound the walls

hell fire snaps and retracts

fall

in

back

against the wall

(think) it's over

head, dead

down

…time…

still

blind

Inside

flame

eye open

heaven’s gate

(hard stare)

step up

head in

light on

God’s home

found.