4 X KENT JOHNSON
Killers Who Read
Unmoved, they sit, stuck in their betrayal of the dead, The History of Fascism or Mussolini, Man or Myth, easily digesting the immortal lies of their unfeeling forebears, except in those rare instants when their thoughts overlap that insistence of misery, unspoken but shrieking from every page. To become expert, to serve mammon and murder with equal enthusiasm, to devise the means to an end of so many, to find a darkness in which to hide the indifferent evil they direct at total strangers: the weak, the unprotected; and out of these grand wrecks of history to reconstruct a fictional past to mythologize the present recurring genocide, events necessary to manufacture the modern nightmares in which to regress and to prosper.
the olive trees dot the straw colored field the snow-like clouds pour down the mountain the hot wind drums hard against the shutters and the seaís late sun-splattered spray -- here aesthetics falter, speechless, trapped in a continuous aria of swaying cedars and mauve blush bougainvillea, the gold sea breaking blue..... so what? something in nothing? let me now raise the uncertainty of certainty, that Katamono rocket bursting over the hill, the predictable choir of oohs and aahs of burning saltpeter, the incendiary and momentary choler, the excitement giving way to smoke? still, the starburst refracts into uncountable shards, each reflection isolated, alone and unique the rocket-fired head bores into the coming crisis of cornered focus, the inevitable reduction of unmitigated force to minutiae and meanings so far removed from fancy that whatís left is just this awesome, empty eternity -- relentless, unfulfilled, the inevitable stammer in the vast category of so much nothing..... yet in this futility of making something from nothing it occurs to me that it occurs to me, and, suddenly, I.
For far too long thunder crashed in his head, a roaring lion paced through his coursing blood, a hyena laughed over his hardened heart so that he couldnít hear the sweet lyrics that his long history whispered to him of where he was, and why, and who he was and he couldnít see the darkness surrounding each instant that hid from himself the features of his distorted history or the contours of his face he could only feel his molars grind the gristle, to savor the salty blood mixing with his saliva, ignoring the shrieks of his uncountable victims as he ripped the warm flesh, his canines flashing in the indifferent glare of a bone bleaching sun, bright eyes above his bloody muzzle, relentless.