Roy DePape is a Child-murdering Pedophile

Hi Everyone!

The Bone here. Long before I knew what a persona poem was, I came up with a...presence...whose name was Grittnore the Bombay Pedophile. I shortened his name to Roy DePape, which is the same, or similar, to a character in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'. So, that's how old DePape is, but Grittnore is much older.

I've always been fascinated by monsters. I've interacted with plenty of them. Bullies that want to hurt you. You know the type. King's monsters were a welcome distraction from the real thing, so I guess I named him DePape as homage.

Anyway, I was writing these poems, and I want(ed) them to be more of a character study than a recounting of the crimes. I mean, how does a child-murdering pedophile sleep at night? Or (make love? have sex? Bone?) get romantic with their partner? That's so weird.

On my drive of lost poems, I found several about Ol' Roy. Here's one I decided to omit from something. I can't remember if it was a manuscript or what, but I erased some notes about how this piece wasn't good or to my liking. So, I thought I'd give it to you for free, on my blog!

Don't say I never gave you anything.

(you) Love,

The Bone Inside

Pressure

He smells rotten meat

at night when the air’s on

and he traces his wife’s earlobe

with his left hand.  He wants

to be filled with something

other than this tonight.  He pushes

the denim quilt down

and slides out of bed. 

There are pills on the nightstand.

He dry-swallows two.  Head back

he sees, in shadows,

the slow rotation

of the ceiling fan.  Head forward

he can trace

the slats of the wooden floor

by the dim kitchen light.  It shines

for the sons who may want

something to drink in the night.

Under the bed

in a cardboard box

are brown hair locks.

He has handcuffs,

assorted license plates

and wood blocks

in the trunk

of his ’87 Buick Skylark.

Cry the Gentle Hemisphere

You know what The Bone loves? Nature. I wrote this poem shortly after reading a nifty little novel called "Ishmael," by Daniel Quinn. Ishmael was one of those life-changing books, and I used it in my Comp classes at Wayne State College. My observer one semester told me a student told her it was the first book in college he actually read. It is a very depressing book--at least it was for me.

My cowboy friend and I were talking this afternoon about illness. We were wondering where it came from. I remember, when I was little, seeing my cousins on the ranch (near Johnstown, Nebraska) drink from streams and such. I asked the cowboy if he did that. He had. He's 71 or so. I asked him if he'd do it nowadays. He said there were one or two he'd drink from, but they were "...real remote."

If we were put on earth to be its stewards, it was decided, we are reaping what we sow. Anywho, here's a little poem, along with a recording. The music was composed and performed by Jason Kobinski (Kobinski), back in the mid-90s. It was recorded on a hand-held cassette recorder, so be gentle on the quality.

Oh, and if you go near water--pack out your garbage, yo.

Audio Link

Cry the Gentle Hemisphere

Mighty sun are your lessons done?

Puffy clouds are you done speaking?

Blades of grass is there no class

Where I can learn just what I’m feeling?

Mighty earth do you still speak,

Or are your words and echoes gone?

Solid tree is there no song

That you can sing in breeze to me?

Mighty sky are you alive?

Flowers have you lost your tongue?

Rain is there no gentle hymn,

Or are your quiet tunes all sung?

Lowly man are you so blind

And deaf and mute and so alone

That you can’t hear the earth cry out

Its final sad and solemn poem?