the noir writer

i can't go outside.
the second i step out the door,
lay my eyes on the things that are real,
i'm hit with it.
vicarious paranoia
the little blonde girl on the corner
and the trunk of a car.
the man with a torn coat
and the gun store down the block.
the hobo sitting against the wall
and the blithe brutality of highschoolers.

i hear the music in the background.
fantaisie in the key of schizophrenia.
i'm solving cases that i invent,
right inside my head,
and it's too fucking much

i need a computer screen
a constancy
a place to capture my concentration with a bear trap
pull its mangled leg free, nail its wrists and ankles
to the blank page in front of me.
let its blood drip onto my keyboard.

i see murders in everything.
i see guilt in every passing man
fear in every woman who crosses her arms
and i see murders,
ones that haven't happened,
ones that will never happen
not yet