The world stops, time stands still

Nourished soil brings new life

Sun warms pure skin

Hide, feed, grow, survive

Danger is everywhere

Only the strong survive

Maturity achieved

Pheromones fill the air

Springtime rides the wind

Flowers blooming, nests weaved

Suitors fight for their mates

Strength and beauty toil

Elders smile on the young

As they ready themselves

To nourish the soil

I look forward to being old enough that I can sit and enjoy watching children at play without people assuming I'm a registered sex offender. Women don't have this problem. A woman can go to a park, or sit outside a playground, or relax on a bench at the mall by the place where people bring their children to play. She can smile when a kid giggles at the thrill of a wavy slide. She can wave and smile when a kid notices her. The parents will notice her, of course, though, they would notice me first.

Of her, they would think her child was there playing as well, and that would be the end of it. Noticing me, they would start counting children and parents, discerning who belonged to who, following the watchful eyes of the adults to see whether or not I had any offspring present. She could write in a journal; hell, she could take pictures! I would have awkward visits from people pretending to be friendly, asking, "Which one is yours?" before glancing across to the others, signaling, "He's here alone!!" They would imagine a woman, alone in such a place, had a terrible sadness within her, possibly having lost a child or dreamt of one day having her own. They would imagine of me that I wore giant, adult-size diapers and had a tripod set up in a basement in front of a mattress with no box spring or sheets.

A woman can compliment a little girl, "What a pretty dress," and her mother would thank her and take pride in having picked it out. The same compliment from me and she would instinctively clutch her purse, grab her child, and hunched slightly forward, share a world of emotions in a single glance as she hurried by.

But an old man gets a pass. He no longer represents a threat. He has a youthful spirit, he misses his grandkids, he looks like someone's grandpa, he's adorable. At age 77, I could sit on a park bench with my nut sack hanging out of my shorts and people would still look at me with pity, maybe even reverence, who knows? I could watch the little kids enjoy the part of life I haven't felt since I was young enough not to care who was watching. The people would glance right by me without a moment's concern. They won't notice me at all.

Then it will be too late.

By day, the stealthy coyotes keep hidden among the creosote bushes and mesquite trees, rarely venturing into the open spaces; but the night belongs to them and the change is profound--whether mocking the absence of danger or merely flaunting their freedom from fear, something primitive, something... instinctive, tells them it's okay to poop in my driveway.

I found the first one

Heart extracted from her chest

Out in the garden

The second body

Sat rotting by an oak tree

Enjoying sunsets

Body by body

It was easy to find them

Following her clues

I had to wonder

Why did she show them to us

Why did she trust us

Seventeen corpses

Seventeen victims of love

Her collection of hearts

It was poetic

It was sensuous and dark

It was beautiful

Undeniable

Oh Sushi what have you done

It wasn't fiction

I don't know which is harder to do: to forgive or to forget. I can't forgive myself for the things I did when I knew damn well it was wrong; and as much as I want to forget, I know that remorse and regret are the only things keeping me from repeating such offenses. Without punishment, what would deter me from using the same behavior? So I can't reasonably forgive, nor consciously forget. Some life lessons are actually life sentences.