It is a simple judgment: I had enough of their not worshiping me. I could not take their idolatry; I abhorred their indifference to my glory. I stood in silence, I stood in scoffing silence scoffing, and they did not see me; they did not obey my laws. I said, "How long will you not notice me? How long will I not be the center of your attention, the life of your dead parties, the talk of the dining commons?" My patience has been tried, and your hearts have been hardened by youthful lusts, and licentious distractions, and jammed with gods and goddesses primped in all forms of promiscuity. How long shall I wait for you to humble yourselves; when shall you turn from your sinful days and trust funds and your Christian vacuity? What do I have to do with your perversions, your petty conversions, your pet conversations iced with gossip poured over lazy lips?
I wrote poetry. I wrote plays. I was an English major. I never said a word. And yet I was writing a story you could not read. My poems and plays made you uncomfortable; mere words made you fear. How much fear now? I send mail express -- Ismail Ax to NBC -- and yet I leave you with question marks. ? is my name and ? is my legacy. Today, in the grave you will desecrate, I laugh last, and my laugh lasts in your questions asked too late.
This is my grade, my passing grave. I have written something none of you could ever dare to write. Now you all have read it.
Note what I say as I enter your room, Professor: "Good morning! How are you?" It's the first time you heard that, no? I'll show you some irony. Hot irony. And now listen to this, and this, and that, and that, and that. And that!
You have emptied my heart's chambers. I empty them into yours, and yours empty in liquid-who-cares on the forensic details of your bookbag. I will be your god this hour, if it be the last thing I do. I know when the term ends. And so does this gun. You will worship in this moment, pronouncing my name in perfect punctuation.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
6 comments:
I submit that it is risky to post a prose poem here, one that deals with so sensitive an issue as the Virginia Tech shootings. I admit that it is a stretch for me to reach toward the psyche of a murderer, but I can't help but explore. You see, I hear a demented Jeremiah in his voice; and I see a graffiti artist painting his prose, play and poem in the twitches of a trigger finger.
In short, I believe that in a perverted sense of the prophet and the artist, Mr. Cho meant his final acts to be seen as literature, as art.
I may be wrong.
BG
PS. Whatever I've done here, it is not in any sense the appreciation of violence.
Original and powerful view. Wow.
Heidi,
Thanks for leaving a comment. It is good to know - since we're dealing with such a risky topic and all - that someone finds this piece engaging.
Thanks, thanks, thanks.
Peace.
BG
Very powerful.
Sometimes, risks are good.
Btw, this is totally off-topic, but how has your health been of late? I hope you are feeling better.
Bill--
I heard a clip of Mr. Cho's sermon on a late-night radio show, and immediately after it ended the host said, in his bland basso-profundo voice: "obviously a deranged individual". And I thought to myself, "hey, Mr. Radio Host, maybe YOU'RE the deranged individual, talking like a robot for 4 hours a night".
I do think Mr. Cho was a humorless ass, as well as a lousy artist, but I can see how many religious people, and many alienated folks, will sympathize with his jeremaid. I certainly relate to his disgust (though I don't think I share it, not entirely). I also think his articulation of that disgust was utterly cliched, though I suppose that's beside the point, for most people.
So I applaud you for attempting to dive into his psyche, to elevate his sentiments to the level of a greater elegance. It's an interesting risk to take, and I hope you take more similar risks. Don't ever be squeamish!
--Luke
we all think ourselves god, whether we notice our not. Those who do us wrong are evil, deserving judgment. Those who we perceive to be positive toward us are good. The standard is within us.
cho, like us, is a fallen man, self-exalting. He is not god, as he has and will continue to discover, when, one day in the future, all he has killed stand up to life again by the power of the true judge, and their blood cries out for justice against him.
This same "judgment day" error also seemed ripe in the Columbine killers. In their full-blown falleness, they embraced the lie that they were gods, and executed the "sinners" who had offended them.
Times change, evil stays the same. "You will surely not die! In the day you eat, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God."
We are indeed suckers until the Savior brings cleansing humility with His blood.
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