West Memphis Three

I. JAMES

In 1993, my mother told me there were Satan worshippers kidnapping little boys and cutting their pee-pees off. Those were her exact crude words. I was nine years old, just like the three kids found in Robin Hood Hills. I lived in a town called Lexson, a stone’s throw from the crime scene.

This was the first summer my mother did not employ a babysitter. I stayed alone so she could save money. All a Satanist needed to do was hit I-40 to Law Road, Exit 93, to find me. Luckily, the authorities caught the bastards by June. It was all over the news. The authorities found evidence: knives, heavy metal cassettes, and books. I wanted to know which books. I craved knowledge. I believed no text could possess me. One of the books was by the infamous Aleister Crowley who wrote extensively on ritual sacrifice. I wouldn’t find any of his works until much later in life. By then, I’d long changed. I became of age. I moved away. I wore a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off. I enjoyed body modification. By then, the captured Satan worshippers turned out to be innocent, the real murderers still out there, and those little boys still dead. As for me, I studied all the outcast theologians—Paracelsus, Bruno, Besant, and especially Aleister Crowley. Did you know Crowley’s motto was “Love is the law, love under will?” Did you know in Crowley’s magical system the numeric values of love and law equate to 93? Do you realize 1993 was the year those boys were murdered, and 93 was the exit number to my hometown? Do you realize the street I grew up on was called Law Road, and to this day, I am filled with love?

II. EX-

Phil wanted to know everything about James. He wanted to know if James was taller than him. The answer was yes. James was over six feet, slender, corded, and covered in tattoos. Stallions trampled across his torso. James called the design “Pharaoh’s Horses.” Phil asked where James received his horses. I didn’t rightly know. James traveled all over. Of course, Phil wanted to know where. James had lived in the American South, New York City, Mexico City, Dublin, and back to New York City. Phil wanted to know if James had an accent. Yes, Phil, James had an accent. He had a voice fit for radio. Phil wanted to know where James was born exactly. I remembered a little town called Lexson being mentioned. Phil researched the place. He thought it seemed podunk with a population of seven thousand, big whoop. I told Phil that James was forged by life experiences. That shut Phil up for a while. There was no mention of James for weeks, and in this time, Phil could be gentle. He asked about my day in the office. He brought over flowers in the evenings. He prepared hearty salads. But eventually our conversation always came back to James. Phil’s questions became so specific. He wanted to know what kind of music James listened to. I told him emo-violence and death metal. Phil asked if that’s why I liked all the wild noise? Because of James? I blushed. Phil only listened to solo artists. He wanted to know if James was right or left-handed. I remember James being a lefty. I described his black scrawl across the page, letters that looked like spaces between broken teeth. By this time, I was becoming disturbed by all of Phil’s inquiries. I was losing respect. I no longer cared for Phil’s posture. I disliked his Dell computer and selection of footwear. He wanted all the details, so I gave it to him straight. I told Phil that there would never be anyone like James. He was a one-of-a-kind who didn’t need me or my time, and in that way, James was all I ever wanted. I obsessed over him. I would’ve done anything to stare into his icy blues just once more. He could’ve modified me however he needed. I wouldn’t move a muscle unless asked. I even told Phil about how I stalked James during a wave of passion. I once got inside James’s building. I pounded at his door on the third floor, but he never answered. I eventually snapped out of my mania. Although I still think of James and what he’s doing to this very day. No telling with that man. Phil said he had no idea what I was going on about. I told him that was the whole point. There’s so much I don’t know about James.

III. AND A MALIGNANT FORCE

A fairy tale made of destructive materials. The unlords prove their worth. Kids these days know nothing about trenches or the laugh of a well-confident man. Songs backmasked on forbidden tape. Easy access for vandalism. Easy access for violation. Like the dreams of surgeons. Faded rags. Christianized magick. A hillbilly sacrifice done all wrong. Mutilated perceptions. Blade. Broken glass. Or the mark of a wild animal. Don’t forget the original blunt force trauma. Don’t forget shoelace suffocation. Little boys in a ditch gilded in mud. No stains. No blood. Misplaced fibers. Forevermore. Not even a doctor understands. Nor foolish detectives. Lady Justice long paid off. Her blindfold removed. Only medication stops the autophony now. A needle in the hay. An unconscious grunt. A curb scab between good marks. Parental overdose. Vagrancy near a pillar of grief. A bindle and a haggard diary. Robin Hood Hills scribbled backwards. Dangerous glyphs. This scratch on the empty page. Like the sin of self-harm. They call me Mr. Bojangles. Metalhead skin carver. Traveling the highways and byways of this great nation. Of unalienable rights. In search of sovereignty. Slogans bought and paid for with blood money. V for victory as penned by the Great Beast. And today I carve into this new surface: V for violence. V for vulnerability. V for vitriol. And V for visibility. If only you had opened your eyes.