my friend’s taking me on a tour of crime scenes

under the smoggy ash skies of L.A

we drive slow past a stucco pastel palm tree shaded suburban nest

a house so bright it makes your eyes flinch.

and you’d never know a decade ago before the trial

before the arrest

and the orgy of flashbulbs and newsprint

that in this house a has been athlete

tore his ex wife’s throat open to the bone

and left her on the cobblestones,

her head hanging by a shred of suntanned skin.


now the house is repainted and refurbished,

all Nicole’s blood has been bleached clean and washed away

and the new owners on the lease are unafraid of blonde ghosts

whispering wet prayers at midnight.


as I drive by, I squint for the trimmed bushes

where the athlete laid in wait

running his arthritic hands over the blade

a man who crafted a waitress into a trophy wife punching bag

there was never enough coke caked bills or rental car commercials

to ever escape from that pussy-whip cracking an ulcer in his sagging gut


so he spiked her like a touchdown, ran her deep in the end zone

for a last play, drove home, washed away her DNA and hopped in his limo

caressing the gaping gash in his finger and improvising an alibi

only a hopeful delusion would assume the cops wouldn’t suspect you first.

her teeth were still loose in her jaw from your last unwelcome visit

and when a woman dies, her last boyfriend is the first suspect

because half the time he did it

but the athlete was fast to run but slow to think the ref

wouldn’t blow the whistle on his foul


and now his ex wife is in the dirt while he still plays golf on the green.


the house is still standing with it’s lawns trimmed and cut

the birds still sing with full throats past the trees

and neighbors leave their doors unlocked.

I drive past the house wide eyed wondering

how much renovation it takes to clean up after two cadavers

gushing 66 stab wounds a piece

I have my driver circle the house just to get another look

and I undo my seat belt, close my eyes

and pretend I’m in the back seat of a limo,

getting away with everything…


so here’s to Nicole,

a waitress who spread for a fat wallet

and took too many black eyes for a tip

blitzed by a jock when he intercepted you with another player

and got you both sacked

you always knew who would be the last eyes looking down on you

and I’m sure there’s no satisfaction you were right.


here’s to OJ Simpson

the only living witness,

the patron saint of getting away with it.

A low rent Othello with no nervous shake in his spear driving home his point,

juiced like the ultraviolent pulp of a clockwork orange

who juked out jurors for the run of his life

you’ve been wide open for the last decade waiting for your next catch

I’ve met two women who snorted coke with you on a yacht

while your next Nicole hangs on your arm

blonde blank and titillated at the ambiguity of your innocence

as you sink your cock into another woman’s body

like a knife into a sheathe.

and I wonder if after you tuck your children in your bed

if you ever masturbate to their mothers ghost…


tonight you sit in a cell in Vegas for trying to steal your past back,

handcuffs on those hands that cut through a spinal cord

until the steel scratched stone

those hands that caught spinning pig skin and fistfuls of peroxide hair

those hands clasping open and closed in the dark

alone in your cell with only a mirror

that won’t reflect you back.