The Skinning Pit Poem by The Poet SPIEL

how many times had you watched it:
three times seven times the first time network tv got
primetime rights to it?

how many times before you could face the raw
fact that you were enchanted with those riveting hannibal lecter confrontations, that under your breath you confessed your love for him, that you got off in his presence

how many times before kevin, that sweet shy man at
the video store with his adam's apple nearly jumping through his jaw finally said to you:

you know, sir, it might be cheaper for you to purchase your own
copy than to rent it one more time -

and you: knowing he surely sensed your secret affair
with lecter because you were not the only one seeking that exhilaration, because if there was such a thing as a dog-eared copy of a video, certainly silence of the lambs was exactly that, and all those who rented it had that same hunger in their eyes: all of them

white men barely breathing,

desperate for lecter's bargaining power: not bad men,
just men with a worm inside their brains which would not quit - and - maybe a wish leaning towards performing an actual skinning - perhaps acting out some kind of radical self-transformation: not unlike your wish but then again not quite the same

but you choose to purchase a copy of passion of the
christ instead - a film you've never seen and have no intent of watching - because you believe that your selection of this box-office-smash will surely put kevin's mind at ease about your character

so…you go home pouting - feeling empty.

you suffer through withdrawal from your fervent
wish to accompany lecter in your impassioned hope that you might at last pleasure in the personal revelation of buffalo bill's unique derma skills - a sort of first-hand skinning lesson: your childhood peeling of rabbit's skins having been barely a toe in the water - and all this: bearing down upon you as you sit there stupidly staring at re-runs of seinfeld and friends and everybody loves raymond - white men, white men, white men: ohhh such very very white men, each of them barely breathing in a banal world without oxygen

then, though admittedly reluctantly, you yield, and
shove the passion video into your v.c.r. where you are astonished to find a reckless and presumptuous film, so filled with sadism and gore that you wonder at the intent of the evil mind of the whiteman zealot who conceived and hawked it to blinded fools passing "gifts-of-love" churchplates from pew to pew so to finance group studies of this bloody romp - and all in the name of "righteousness"

your extra-butter bowl of microwave popcorn does
not assuage the bizarre feelings rising from your socks as you now recall how, during those early hollywood days of staged clamor surrounding the release of it, you nearly suffocated in the midst of the whiteman millions who proclaimed it, sacrificed their kids' lunch money to support it because their anxiety to see jesus actually bleed and suffer was so intense, and there were those who saintly claimed that this awful thing converted their wretched souls to humility and surrender (oh god, what on earth has possessed you, like everyone else, to finally lay out cash for it?)

yet you know that the diabolical hannibal lecter,
even in the midst of savoring the delicacy of a fresh-ripped human tongue, surely would have had the decency to spit out the passion as white dementia, and as for buffalo bill, well, he would not have been able to bear the buckets upon buckets of blood so wastefully slathered upon all that precious commodity: enslaved white skin

so at six a.m., you crush the film beneath the back left
wheel of your mundane white ford escort, you cram this dreadful jesus chainsaw massacre through the overnight slot at the video store for shy kevin to reckon with - then burn rubber as you squeal away - fully aware that his surveillance camera has just caught you on tape in your own underground flick: silence of the christ - you wish you had spelled it out on the demolished box with a skull and crossbones warning the innocent not to touch it - you cross your heart and hope to die that you will never rent a gibson film again

now, with that certain smugness of self-redemption, you head out for bacon and french toast in a back booth at denny's, where you premeditate your every move in the skinning:

you foresee a truly fit michael jordon in your grip,
gazing upward at you from his knees, praying from the bottom of the pit, perhaps, oh twenty-five feet deep - you do not abuse him - you keep him well fed on caviar and such delicacies appropriate for such a handsome and filthy-rich executive - good nutrition is fundamental to your plan - you outfit him daily with immaculate hanes underwear, provide him with adequate olympic-qualification-sized stretch space, a properly inflated wilson ball and a challenging hoop ten-feet above his head, oh and good lighting - good light is essential for good skin - and as you meticulously and methodically peel band-aid-size strips of smooth and precious black skin from his body, you replace them with tidy-but-prosaic white skin from your own: he feels no pain nor of course, as you imagine, does he complain -

quid pro quo - beautiful rich man - quid pro quo

you enjoy the extra blueberry syrup stirred into the
sweet white powder atop your exquisitely golden french toast, then - barely breathing - you wait out front of sam's club till it opens, where at last, you will purchase your own personal-library video of silence, just as soon as the passions of the well-pursed lambs, cast as white hordes, appear to stampede the aisles, like blind sheep spilling over a cliff - and you will know you cannot save them - but it is at this moment of realization when the freshly released wings of an emblazoned butterfly verifiably rattle your ear, and for the first time, you breathe freely