In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • The Author as Man Watching the Lake Shore Strangler Try to Escape as Gunshots Ring Out in Child’s Play, and: The Author as Man Who Watches through the Trees as Bruce Gets Killed After Being Struck by the Convertible in The Informers
  • Keith Montesano (bio)

The Author as Man Who Watches through the Trees as Bruce Gets Killed After Being Struck by the Convertible in The Informers

After the film by Tom Holland

I shouldn’t have, but I followed them: among the neon       of Chinese restaurants, peep shows, the blinding prism of the toy store, lit up 24 hours a day. To duck & hide       behind cars, telephone poles, alley garbage cans: it worked. Neither saw me. For months we followed the news, learned       to look for his weapons, locked our doors at dusk, never knowing where or who he’d strike next. I got the strangler       was all I needed to hear: shot after shot, each windshield shattered, glass twinkling on the black streets. I hid behind       a Camaro as they each stumbled in: neon almost blinding as it reflected off the rain, the screams & shots & trails       of blood before the lightning, as I watched the explosion, otherworldly on this cold Chicago night, & waited for my life       to have some meaning, something no one saw but me. [End Page 9]

The Author as Man Who Watches through the Trees as Bruce Gets Killed After Being Struck by the Convertible in The Informers

After the film by Gregor Jordan

The distant bass & howl of synths that drew me here:       this mansion, arranged with fire, sequins shattering light, those inside shrouded by the curtain’s gauze. The filter       of the in & out—cars sleek & ever-changing, dropping off, picking up, interminable music, the pulse louder & louder       as night turned to morning—opulence I never saw in the Valley. I waited from the trees, prepared to enter too late, all so lost       in their heads they wouldn’t notice. But before I could stand, the convertible threw him, like light speed, onto the bricks.       There were screams before a few stood watching, before the rest went on ignoring: some in the bathroom snorting       their fifth line of the night, some by the pool, shallow plunges into their veins. Before the cops, the ambulance—       not one soul around, sun still glinting off the water. [End Page 10]

Keith Montesano

Keith Montesano is the author of the poetry collection Ghost Lights (Dream Horse Press, 2010). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quarterly West, Third Coast, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Blackbird, Mid-American Review, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. He currently lives with his wife in New York, where he is a PhD candidate in English and creative writing at Binghamton University.

...

pdf

Share