RAGE

These troubled days, don't you wonder what goes on in the minds of those who tie bombs to their bodies with the idea of setting it off in crowded places to kill not only themselves. But as many innocent people as possible. Or those who arm themselves with grenades or with assault rifles shoot round after round into restaurants, stadiums, markets?

 We all like to be good at something, transcend, stand out in a crowd. I'm convinced that acceptance looks good to those who have experienced too little of such. We call these murders insane, sociopaths, losers. Just perhaps their deeds are the only thing that feels good in their lives. The rush. The certainty of a cause. Relief of private pain. Or perhaps all of this and more... Aren't we drawn to wonder how society has birthed such rage? A few years ago, after reading about what was described as a senseless murder, I wrote a poem. It occurred to me that the murder made perfect sense to the murderer. I wrote a poem about such a person. 

RUSH

Crouched in the spill pool

Backpack and all

Cold water heaves forward 

 Faint pink foam from his clothes

 Bar food and Boiler Maker images

The stripper's golden shoes

Heavy Metal his arteries' staccato backbeat

Gathering  ecstasy his glistening blade

Stabbing loveliness of her eyes widening

To see her spurting blood 

Sudden sensual slack peace

To run with the ebb embrace

Dark, so dark, blessed blind dark

 Flagellating branches, cutting shale

Barked shins sweet pain come

Dawn crystal clear knowing:

Christ! They don't catch me,

I want it again

 --Ann Ahnemann 11/17/2015