Jeff M. Giordano

Throwing Knives at the Prayer Wheel

We are no more violent or hateful than our ancestors.
The only difference is we have learned to
turn these feelings inward, hiding them from the world,
sulking and grudging,
thereby displacing our repressed feelings
at something or into someone else,
whom we have invisible, unknown standards for.

We have a curiosity for the bizarre and sublime:
(just as long as it happens to someone else)

"What are the details?" "How did you feel when it happened?"
"Before?" "Seconds after?" "Now?"

Asks the TV reporter, voyeur,
TV and cinema audience.

Give us the tragedy, the sordid images;

we are no different than the ancient Greeks and Romans.

We have the same fascination
that a teenage boy has with pornography:

to peek inside the female body and examine
those dark, cavernous places that
whispers and cuss words can only define and veil.

We want to peek in side the victim's mind and soul,
glimpse into the killer's heart,
to learn if he's a conscious
human being just like us,

or something far more wicked and merciless
than we could ever imagine:

the epitome of Breaking News Headline and
Best Picture of the Year,
the ultimate high and orgasm;

the wet dream of Post-Modern Man.