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.