Parasite Love-Letters

the aisles of this store seem so constricting when it's just the two of us lurching along, picking out meaningless items here and there, using our perception to gague how full our baskets and our existences are at the current moment. we, stand numb and move at only half speed, spreading out the seconds into decades.

it might be just me or the effects of the PCP but everything is much clearer now, much more defined for what will soon be our loving caress.

i can see his shadowy outline in the form of a plaid statue, his dirty jeans are loose fitting and leak the stench of a hard day of walking in the brightest sun one can imagine. in this little kingdom i stand like a scientist, studying and observing this seemingly mythical beast. i can hunt the hunter now in my altered state. i can see his very thoughts, churning like too much alcohol on an empty stomach, ready to be spilled on the tiled floor.

single file we both make our way to the check out line, taking notice of the variety of useless crap that we have heaved into the exit space before us. i watch his trembling hands, those shaking little twigs, slowly gathering his load of misfit trinkets:


vegetables: onions & corn
cereal: chex
milk: 2%
tic-tacs: orange
half pound of ground beef: sirloin
the four pack of oatmeal raisin muffins.


he pushes his bounty onto the conveyer belt and stares as they reach the clerk, who is already tired of the over-night shift that is only 1 1/2 hours in. his eyes are locked on the food before him, he wants to relish the thought of eating before he gets home and makes his meal.

the bagger fills plastic sacks with these items and puts them back into his basket while he pulls his old, musty, leather wallet from his pocket and draws out the crumpled $20 bill from it's sliver of storage space. it's only now that i realize that i forgot the honey mustard sause that i came here for, so i back my cart up and make for the condiments, only to ditch the whole thing before sliding my way toward the front door.

tonight is a special night after all, we have things to discuss just beyond the central air barrier that leads to our meeting spot.

he has no idea that i've been hunting him for some time now:
waiting
watching
studying
taking notes
planning for this beautiful moment for the last six years.


i know how he has let roaming hands and rushing fingers caress the dead that now fill the concrete shallows of his basement walls. his mind relives every moment of torture, penetration and disposal; delighting in the digusting lewd gestures he made while standing over each one of them, the ones we will never see alive again.

i start my car, letting the lights linger in shaded non-illumination. this will be the last ride home we share without his knowledge because when he hits his driveway i'll already have broken into his basement and be ready to show him all the things he has seen from the other side of the table.

this will be beautiful. this will be art.