The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

The Tabernacle of “It’s Good Blood.”

Alex Ziperovich

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The red clay path is a snake suckling blood, children’s’ feet dripping droplets from slices in the tall grass into its round, kind, killing face.

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“The killing have started,” Yes, they certainly have. “Anyone who has the power to lead a rebellion against the Khmer Rouge will be exterminated.”

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I scream and claw against the granite of my forehead; I spent forty-eight hours in the jungle nether region between Cambodia with the Vietmen guerrillas. I poisoned the river and fed the shrimp to Pol Pot and Duch and Brother #2, Num Cheam.

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I saved Chum Mey the horrors of Tuol Sleng.

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They tell me to stop, but I cannot. My desire to understand those at the top and bottom of the regimes that crumbled human bones to make more human bones to feed human bones to human’s has become me, I am completely lost to the total mystery and there is hell that is sweet with wine and honey that awaits me. For I know nothing, somehow I was there.

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Traditional Kampuchea, reincarnated? It’s possible. From 77-86 I could have been leading the rebellion that finally brought the Vietcong. I don’t understand how a nine year old child does that. Influence, I presuppose.

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Chain-smoking, back in S-21, the University of Madness. I am now the guards, the supervisors, the prisoners, the cameramen, the documenters. The documenter. I breathe breath deep so that they may all be there, stagnant, statues in time and place. I unhook the shackles from Chum Mey’s bleeding ankles and remove him, throwing him over my back and out the back door and I am shot in the back of the skull.

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This is my political phantasmagoria and it will not recede nor will it retreat. It will only bleed me, until I can possibly, one day write a decent thesis on the insanity of the sanity of perfection and biology and the psychology and theology of a being that is one man and one country united in a desire that is to be misunderstood and destroyed by itself by its own fear and bloodlust.

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It curdles in my mind like angel dust while saving us (me) from having to deal with reality; the past grows back like amputated legs do not. I am walking from spot to spot to spot, leaving one drop of blood like crumbs for a trail and where I stay will be where I will resurrect all these tyrants from hell and I will hold a conference a council a confession and I will be professional and take notes on legal paper while I have their fingernails slashed open and their throats razorbladed and I don’t know how long this will take but I am willing to go to any length.

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Justice? There is no word profound enough.

I have the same goddamned human blood-lust.

Since I was ten and saw that the world was wrenched.

I just want revenge. I am the same, yet different, diffident, defiant.

I will kill to keep the killers quiet.

Back to the Killing Fields to work on my diet.

Flier for event where I shall be speaking with other poets and writers!

Flier for event where I shall be speaking with other poets and writers!

Beautiful words shall be spoken…

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