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â€œBy the time of the reports, the police had already swept every room of the science building, finding nothing but a 9-millimeter handgun in the second-floor restroom.â€ For Every Marksman Oh, and look at the time, itâ€™s only one. Sit, sit down, Ms. Bishop I see youâ€™re tired. All of this must be taking its toll on you. Can I get you something to drink? Water? I have water to offer - or nothing. You remember Mr. Stevensâ€™ nothing, The nothing that isnâ€™t and that that is? Well, heâ€™s dead, like your colleagues back up there On campus â€“ what do you â€“ water? Of course. Has anyone shown you this picture? I assume you know these people pretty well. I mean â€“ you were in a meeting with them all, All of you were sitting, I presume, there â€“ around the table where we found the three â€“ the three who died. Thatâ€™s right, theyâ€™re not all dead. In due time the story will come out, It always does. One can never be clever Enough to evade the consequences Of our perverse and diabolical minds. What quarter do you think weâ€™re in here, maâ€™m? How the earth moves under our feet this year Has nothing to do with the last or next; More to todayâ€™s bow governing tomorrowâ€™s Sorrows, would you not agree, Ms. Bishop. Bishop: I remember my First Communion, How the host felt on my tongue, waiting for Saliva to melt the wafer, the faint Sweetness of unleavened bread, the Bishop â€“ No, Ms. Bishop, it was the priest, the Bishop Was at my Confirmation â€“ are you a Practicing Catholic? â€“ of course not, sorry, A murderess wouldnâ€™t profess to have Faith in God, would have faith in herself, Would see herself as a god â€“ or goddess â€“ The priestâ€™s fingers stained by cigarette smoke Curled around the cup of the gold chalice, A stack of wafers, like coins or poker chips Held gently between his thumb and forefinger With each communicant heâ€™d slip one into His right hand and drolly â€œBody of Christâ€ us; Weâ€™d reply â€œA-menâ€ with that American Long â€œaâ€ like you say in â€œapronâ€ not â€œappleâ€ â€“ Did you ever bake a green apple pie? â€“ Hot in here. Sorry, Ms. Bishop, but I have To ask you a few questions about what Happened today. It strikes me as rather Odd that youâ€™re the only neuroscientist That Iâ€™ve ever met and yet you donâ€™t seem To be that different from anyone else. Anyway, the Bishop was there for our Confirmation, arrived in a big black Cadillac like a celebrity, hell â€“ Did you say anything before you pulled the trigger? â€“ Sorry. I was saying he arrived and we Knew something big was about to happen. Did you feel that sense of control today, too? The light in the room, the sound of the wind? How did you decide who gets it first? Does death taste any different after The sulfur odor of gunpowder is Suddenly in your face, the panicked look Of people who trusted you, dear madam, What does that sensation remind you of most? Is it orgasmic, Ms. Bishop? Do you Love the way you felt as the nine millimeter Slugs ripped open folks youâ€™d mailed Christmas cards? I donâ€™t remember my Confirmation. I remember taking another name, Wondering where or how Iâ€™d use that Extra initial; thought about the three Initial â€˜first nameâ€™ with only my surname Coming along at the end like a caboose. You see, Ms. Bishop, my mother insisted That I sit and kneel all prim and proper, Never allowing the buttocks to touch The pew while on the kneeler, praying, Of course, that mother might die and leave Us to decide whether weâ€™d go, Us an inheritance so we could buy Any style and brand of bicycle We might like â€“ certainly not a Schwinn. Did you learn to ride at an early age? (There is a knock on the door at this point.) She made us ride Schwinns, of course, Ms. Bishop. I take it you had parent troubles, as well. Weâ€™ll get into all of that in due time. Such silly thoughts we have as children, eh? Hereâ€™s Inspector Anderson, Ms. Bishop. I will take my leave of you now â€“ a pleasure. Mark the way he carries himself, Ms. Bishop. Remind you of anyone? Well, of course he does. Heâ€™s a cop, too. Yes. Weâ€™re all brothers, no? Good day, Ms. Bishop. Carry on then, Anderson. Itâ€™s the waiting that kills you, wouldnâ€™t you agree? God, look at the time, Sheilaâ€™s gonna kill me.
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2010-03-06 00:55:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I saw a movie once, a man unceremoniously screwed a woman on a rooftop in an iron bed almost imported, it looked to be there. It was all done to the imposed imagery of some idea of devotion to the Holy Mother. And left at that. Ceremony is the ideal. Death the practice. JCH
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