Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: murder

So Dangerous He Needs a Soo-da-nim
(Racist Homophobes Who Comment on My Blog)

He knows the Founders so well
Sure of Second Amendment intent
He channels Jefferson
in sick séances where
the tea’s past rancid
but the linen is fancy
except for the nibbles
of moths in every closet

He is steady on the mark
with his Glock and his spiel
about black/brown (like
HIS ancestors didn’t
come from Africa too)
About ‘cullahed peeples’
and their unoriginal sins
About ‘faggots who want him
to bend over and take it’
He knows it by their eyes

His guns were loaded that day
He knew the kid, he really did
Must’ve because he’s been
entrusted with innuendo that
spews out his piehole like
a sick gospel. And he lives
right down the block from you

But he keeps swastikas
hidden in the basement
encased in old-growth wood
covered by a Confederate flag
Proud patriot with a
genocidal mind and a blog
He’s so dangerous, he told me,
he needs a pseudonym

Sad, dangerous, sick
little man with a laptop
he uses at Denny’s and also
big guns and bigger dreams
Gonna clean up AmeriKKKa
We won’t know his real name
‘til we see it on the CNN crawl
But the ironic thing is
his mentor’s name
is Jewish.

© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

His name is Legion. His mentor is Zimmerman. He trolled (!) my blog for a long while, actually claiming he writes under an assumed name, lest the government shut him down. I, like a dutiful bartender, called him a cab and sent him back to his bunker.


1955

She was good looking.
He whistled in appreciation.
Rednecks approached: “Black boy,
gonna teach you a lesson.”

Pistol whipped, drowned, 14.  Emmett Till.
Open casket: Mama’s wishes.
That cruel reality slapped us awake.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Trifecta Friday: Write a horror poem or story in exactly 33 words, without employing the following words: blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. I chose this true story because for me, there is nothing more frightening than to put oneself in the shoes of a victim of hate crime, and Emmett Till’s death and public funeral were key to the outrage that sparked the Civil Rights Movement, a cause my mother believed in deeply and outspokenly.

This poem will also appear at Poets United, my poetic peeps.


Boulevard Noir

I was a crumb, out of a job again,
feeling fallow, hanging out with the other writers at Schwab’s.
An obsolete automobile, titanic and shiny as a new penny,
pulled up; we were slack-jawed, admiring the grandeur.
In front, a bald chauffeur; his passenger, a forgotten icon, Silent era.

She offered me a job, plus room and board.
(Around repo time, one swallows one’s pride and hides
one’s rambunctious side, replacing it with unctuous politeness.)
I approached a mansion at the address she gave me.  Rang the bell;
the stately old house echoed, hollow, eerie.

Her butler took my coat and placed my fedora on the hat-rack.
Who could know that, within one month, I’d be
avoiding her embrace in the palatial garden and
waltzing her around the grand ballroom at a party
“Just for the two of us, my darling…”

And who could predict I’d end up face down her in “cement pond,”
blood lacing the water around my bobbing, lifeless body?

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For The Sunday Whirl and at Poets United.