He’s out there. Smiling as if he were a normal man. He laughs and drinks with family, laughing and drinking at the man that destroyed him.
He’s out to lunch. We’ve seen the core of his cerebrum melt down. We’ve been there when the very vortex of his convoluted omni-superior, galactic mind malfunctioned and all the little springs came loose. He yelled, and screamed; and just when we thought he would feint from exhalation, he’d scream louder.
He’s out to dominate. His egomaniacal id wields the pointed tongue. With vocabulary enough to easily pierce confidence, and lungs enough to thrust through walls of superiority, he kills without regret.
He’s out another wife. The current one numbers three. The two others still shake from nervous remnants of his presence. For years he mindraped them, fucking their brains to pale quivering cries of silence.
He’s out in the field. A professional, he injects his serums of sleep into frightened but trusting veins. Only he decides whether they will wake.
He’s out of town often. His frustrations with “REALITY” drive him to take many vacations. He sits on a boat or a beach while his brow mantles over the embered anguish still burning in his eyes.
He’s out of a job. And then he has one. And out again. Never satisfied—always angry. Time for a vacation. Leaving jobs because… because, they all hate him; but he just looks away, more content with the cracks in the pavement.
He’s out of breath. We don’t call him. His parents—ashamed of him. His ex-wives fear him. The hospitals try to keep him from working.
But he’s working. He’s driving. He’s shopping. He’s at the park. He eats at nice restaurants. He’s bedside to your loved one.
Our father’s a psychopath, but he’s still out there.
One rouge farmer sat and grinned
upon an idling tractor,
his yellow shooting glasses
made fear a vivid factor.
He sat and vibrated
in his favorite field of corn,
while madly chewing jerky,
playing Mozart, reading porn.
Until his twin-lung diesel
coughed within the tractor’s snout,
the farmer raised an eyebrow
then the engine’s breath went out.
He popped up mired in disbelief, interrogative in part,
then cursed in French and German quoting Goethe’s “Faust” and Sartre. That rough rouge farmer turned his head and fought the angered tears,
as he thought back he winced a smirk, “the clutch’s been broke for years.