at least he thinks he is

and like any artist, he has an ego

as big as Texas, and a tattoo of a rose

on his shoulder. That’s the only description

we’ve got of our homicidal lothario

and that’s why they call him “The Florist.”

He makes his fatal delivery

of one American Beauty Rose for each killing.

There are five beside the body

in their little containers of water.

I know it’s water, because it’s been tested

and will be again, but it’s plain old H2O

I’d bet on it

and nobody bets against a sure thing, right?

Anybody in Vegas can tell you they do all the time

and I’m just blowing smoke.

I’m waiting for my partner

to poke his head in the door

and tell me there’s another body this time,

which I already know, because I’m psychic

and sensed the absence of completion, of letting go.

In the garage, on the front seat

of the old Dodge Dart,

a body, rather, parts of it

are laid out like cuts of meat.

“Where’re the flowers?” he asks,

but I just stare, then point.

There it is, there

and it is. Body parts are laid out

in the shape of the rose my partner couldn’t find.

He’s getting symbolic on us, I say,

wiping a spiderweb from my face.

He’ll be harder to trace now,

because he knows one mistake

and he’ll fall through the ice

of his own existence.

He has no regrets now.

He’s conquered his conscience

and come to a place where all is killing

and killing is all.

I know my partner thinks I’m bullshitting.

“Stinks in here,” he says,

then steps out for some fresh air,

but I’m ok where I am.

I can think here. Like him

I can see the girl coming up the walk,

talking to her mother.

She’s sixteen. She’s carrying a birthday cake.

There’s a gap between her teeth.

He’s heard it’s a sign of appetite

and he wonders if that’s true.

Maybe she’ll prove it,

if he does it right.

I get dizzy all at once

and lean against the fender.

I don’t want to see anymore.

I just want to shut the door on the evil

that greets me each day with its pants down,

saying, “Look at it, look at me

and see yourself.”

THE PSYCHIC DETECTIVE: FANTASY

The victim is lying on her side

as if trying to hide the imprint

of the boot heel that smashed her cheek.

As the river runs through her wounds

(and there are many)

I am coldly examining her body this morning.

“What do you think, Bob?” I ask my partner.

“Do you think she was out shopping?

See that empty shopping bag there

the one from that fancy mall.”

“Who cares?” he says.

“She’s dead, end of story.”

It isn’t ordinary as crimes go,

because she’s so mutilated.

He hated her naturally,

because he imagined that she was his mother,

or some other female who wronged him