“George Sodini seethed with anger and frustration toward women.”
Los Angeles Times, August 6, 2009
For S.A.S, Patsy, and, I suppose, G.S.
You reach a certain age, settle, look back—
Find your head moving, lightly, side to side—
Soundless words contemplate the trashy wrack—
Your wrecked life’s debris, polluting time’s tide.
A man I know, executive editor—
Energetic, wise, master on life’s flute—
Lady-dumped! His bruised heart, grim predator,
Gnawed itself, sent him on a week-long toot.
Alcoholic stupefaction never
Works. The man came back. Ardent women flocked!
Even bruised hearts heal. The truly clever
(Turbulence be damned!) reach haven, unmocked.
Another man is in the news this week.
Twenty-five years without a date—he grieved,
Enraged by women—saw himself perceived
As slug. His self-mocked soul escaped the bleak,
Unbearable confinement, dark construct
Of that slippery abyss—his fucked head.
Free, at last, to spite the world, run amok,
He wounded nine, killed three—shot himself dead.
Ah, smashed esteem will dig a moral pit—
For George, a mortal, sucking quicksand vat—
For Steve, an opportunity—his wit
Hoisted his heart, led him to darling Pat.
(8/8/09)