R.J. confesses:"Prostitution. Recent articles/videos highlight the illegal street circus taking place in NYC Queens being ignored by authorities. Hawkers are even ‘brazenly peddling’ to children - unacceptable. In the 1970s Nevada began regulation of the industry with enforced parameters. As the ancient occupation continues, is Nevada’s solution worth consideration?"
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. First published in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Ambush from behind, wooden ball bat drops me
to knees, slaps palms to rough sidewalk concrete.
Pleasant evening walk twists horrific.
“Please no.” Confusing conversation rings me.
Bat end beats a steady tempo dull on thug’s open palm.
Unseen bludgeon shoves stiff back, forces wrinkled face
to scratch against cured aggregate. Glasses bite
tender nose bridge. Raise to forearm lean,
grit grinds into skin. Rebel staccato breath,
pushes heart, rapid pulse. I pant down
the dark shadow beneath spread flat shaking hands.
Panic pleads verbal nonstop to half dozen juveniles
circle-planted between me and park path tree line.
Bat end thuds a steady tempo off path on solid earth.
Laughter erupts, hems me in. “Do it, Switch.
They still talkin’.” Teeth hard clamp, mental outrage
screams how? To me? Anyone else. Not me.
Risking speech, “Please, please, what do you want?”
Solid club strikes thin bladed shoulder, stuns right arm,
knocks me prostrate. “We don’t want shit from you
Ol’ man. But maybe we take your bread, your cell.
You got sump’n else we might want?”
Bat end smacks a steady tempo next to my head.
I am old. I no longer run, fight, hold my own.
Painful roll onto right side, left arm labors
to free wallet and phone from pants pockets.
“Help’m out Dee. See he got sump’n else we want
while you at it.” Hesitant hands grow bold,
pat behind, shove me moaning face up,
clean me out. “Why are you doing this?”
Soft ask. Harsh answer, “Cause we can Ol’ man!”
Bat end cracks one heavy punctuation between limp legs.
Final golf-stroke slam to my left thigh, crude crew
amble off, joke, laugh, jingle keys, total up cash,
pluck ID, credit cards, deride family photos,
toss empty brown leather into wood fringe.
Awareness drifts, time slips.
Forfeited reality gains.
A distant stranger rings 911.
Though the dreaded departed,
fear may never,
never,
ever.
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
RJ confesses:"Headlines glare, videos capture. Youth groups attacking city and suburban dwellers, preying on the most vulnerably fragile. Respect, consideration, conscience, all appear to be fading. Perhaps it’s wishfully nostalgic that society return to a time more virtuous filled with common decency. One can hope."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Multitudes mummer
Standing tunnel cool
In crowded lucent waiting
I feel you staring
At my floppy black brim
One hand push covers to eyelids
Two fisted pull folds hot ears
No hair escapes
No deterrent appears
Stop staring at my hat
Clammy air wafts my wake
While slow drifts pull me to you
Still staring at my hat
Eyes veer now push my face
Burrowing my brain
No longer staring at my hat
No retreat anticipates the train
Stop staring at my face
Aside concrete platform edge
You ignore my hat and face
With willful actions push insult
Twitchy fingers pull sleeve ends
To crescive loud track hum
No focus on my hat or face
No grasp of looming fate’s outcome
Stop staring into space
Open red hands quickly push
Seconds drag slow-motion fall
As roaring engine deafens disbelief
Conductor’s raw grimace shouts
Louder than rasping brake squeal
Details locked in memory
To pull repeated electric thrill
No lost colorful detail
No guilt associated kill
Stop bleeding on the tracks
Smirks pull black brim
Up metal stairs to hot streetside
Giggles push up a dry throat
Spontaneous to gurgle out
Screams and gasps expand
One massive bellow from below
Permanent end to unsought stare
No more lingering contempt
No more persistent prying dare
Why are you staring at my hat?
Sidewalk crowd weave hole
Clasp onto indignant eyes
Watch checking briefcase foe
Abut to nonstop traffic growl
Stands shiny toe to curb
I pose erect push back your glare
Hat pull still eyelid tight
No open empty pavement lane
No walk light carefree flight
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
RJ confesses:"Would you ride the NYC subway at night? During the day? Type ‘subway incident’ in a web search and New York City plasters the listing page. No criminal consequence, mental illness, uncivil unprovoked outrage. On the train, the platform, in the station, now the street, assume nowhere is safe."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Firm stride marches a worn grass aisle
Between dated names on upright stones
Incomplete history stamped on lifetimes
Of personal accomplishment
Or innocence molester
Agony searches with frenzied gaze
For detested loathsome pervert
Molding slab detected, knees fold
To soft earth never settled
Rutted dirt mudded puddle
Whispered chant escalates to raving scream
Whitening fists pound ground rhythm
Accompaniment to condemnation
Exhausted rant falls forward limp
Speechless, motionless
Weary expunger wavering stands
Departing defiled spits a sealing curse
“Be damned you Bastard,
May hell’s hurricane beat you forever”
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
Rena confesses:"Abuse in any form has no excuse. Sexual, physical, emotional, verbal. So often these events hide in silence. The victim shamed, guilted, angered. Years pass and the ability or opportunity to confront the abuser is taken from the wounded. No closure. Perhaps screaming and Dante’s hell help balance the equation."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
The body fell limp on oriental carpet not even
rolling around before I rolled it up then bungee tied.
Love this carpet. Shame it has to go.
Odd my foray into murder, though
calm now, conscience riddled
nightmares will haunt. Heard dead weight
lifted double. Believe it. First rush adrenalin
must have assisted since it proved easier
sliding the roll into car hatch than now out.
Jute back scrapes the soft skin on the inside
of my arms. So much for betrayal. Seems fitting
somehow, this slime disappearing rather than
setting up the next callous misery which arrogant
ego would have led to. Woolen black, golds and
reds really looked sharp against my wood floor.
Slow drag. Moonlight accentuates blue black ahead.
Guess this bare steep decline to forest filled ravine
is suitable. Crumbling dirt edge stymies me.
Exhausted, I carpet roll sit and contemplate.
To unroll or not to unroll.
Unroll decomps more rapidly.
Not unroll assumes less chance of sighting.
Unroll involves a slide down to cover
with dirt and leaves and sticks and rocks and moss
or whatever is handy. Not unroll might unroll
in tumbling descent and then
I’d have to slide down to cover
with dirt and leaves and sticks and rocks and moss
or whatever is handy anyway. Cleaning the carpet
wouldn’t take that much. There are reds in it.
Unroll adds a touch of final humiliation
well deserved. Not unroll adds no vexing
mental images bound to those from my garage.
I love this carpet.
Bungy straps disconnect and loose flesh flops
down the steep decline and I slide down to cover
with dirt and leaves and sticks and rocks and moss
or whatever is handy.
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
R.J. confesses:"Coupled 1) a TV crime drama opening shot of two young men unrolling a street scavenged carpet unwittingly tossing a body onto their apartment’s living room floor with 2) a lovey woolen oriental rug laying underfoot. Received as a gift, how I would hate to lose it.
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
R.J. confesses:"Faced with death, must we follow the first afterlife specter that seeks us out? When acknowledging the grave, if the initial apparition creates suspicion and repulsion, should one blindly follow without serious consideration of this inescapable decision? The wise might delay, hopeful of an alternative offer into the next step."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Mark of shame
Brazenly reveals
Your double-cross deceit
Stress marks
Crinkle your eyes
Forehead, mouth
Pressure pushes for
Normality
Calm cloaks disquiet
Frets and torments
Marksman holds
Obscure observation
Though camera close
Routine penned
In anticipation
Imagination
Paints a bull’s-eye
On your back
Your head, your heart
Death marked
Rifle snipe
Calculates
Rooftop vantage
Red dot laser
Bores your forehead
Ere one silent shot
Marks you down
Onto gravel bitten knees
Face first to nose grave dirt
R.J. reads "Easy Mark":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
R.J. confesses:"Movie scene flashes. A rifle barrel balanced on a parapet. A view through the scoop. To assassinate by definition generally implies killing someone powerful, prominent. My aim to capture what mounting guilt and fear the less eminent must bear awaiting the unseen assassin, cold and disconnected, who methodically hunts to kill."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. First published in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Guilt justly anoints
By murderous confession
Clear verdict with sentence quick
Observers sit separate
Victim’s pack from mine
Eager press divides in two
Straining limbs bound
For culpable crimes
Needles unfelt insert
Warden’s head hangs
Chaplain’s voice prays
My heavy last words faintly stammer
I anguish
I anger
I regret
In silence
Eyes close
I repent
If he is
Grant me
God forgives
R.J. reads "Jury Rule":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
R.J. confesses:" An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Envisage heard the jury rule with no recourse, sat the cell, walked the hall, lay upon the table, silently screamed, desperately prayed. Words traveled where imagery led."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. First published in The Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Slow brake to a stop
In my big black Cadillac
Offering a lift for your hitch
No threat
No risk
No hazard
Trust me like an uncle
Ride in my tan leather
Drink or two on me
Twist the dial
Laugh me a tune till
Unfamiliar route exposed
I then devour mounting fear
In your widening eyes
In your trembling voice
And smirk at your realization
When child locks click
Speed escalates so
No curb roll
No outcry
No dodge
From blunt head bash
Into unconsciousness
Through the menacing night
To a remote dwelling
I’ll strap you in
I’ll lock you down
Terrorizing torture featuring
Brute disfigurement
Psychic beatings
A long night of play
To a shallow dirt grave
No marker
No mourners
No trace
R.J. reads "Cadillac Prey":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
R.J. confesses:"On US 127 North, I watched a totally black Cadillac SUV - even Escalade was black on black - fly by. Windshield and windows so heavily tinted one could not see a shadow within. Why the obscurity? What dark secrets hid inside? Who dimly viewed the world from behind the shrouded glass?"
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. First published in The Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
I’m hangin’ in my room
Staring down childhood unicorns
Stuffed, postered, porcelain
From eight foot up
I’m five two
I’m hangin’ in
Throes of teenage heartbreak
Red-faced loss
Bulldozed breathless end
I’m crushed
I’m hangin’ by a thread
Stilled no longer swaying
Neck bath-robe belted
To a hook bolt in a ceiling beam
I’m frozen wide-eyed
I’m hangin’ out
In pieces from my PJs
Lifeless limbed
Unendingly broken
I’m beyond repair
I’m five-two
I’m crushed
I’m frozen wide-eyed
I’m beyond repair
I’m hangin’ in my room
I’m hanging
in
my room
R.J. reads "Thread Bare":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
R.J. confesses:"Attempting, in multiple ways over multiple days, to explicitly describe the drive behind these words has been a failure. Teenage suicide. Sad, so very, very, sad. Enough said."
RENA J. WORLEY s a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. Previously published in The Five-Two on May 27, 2019.
Skip the rope
No knife
Ditch the gun
I said
Skip the rope
Rather
The feel of flesh
Soft or wrinkled
Smooth or stubbled
Jugular jumping under my palm
Desperate
Hands tear at my latex gloved clinch
Eyes bulge
Full body
Convulsive twitch
Permanent
Bruised purple necklace
Surprised expression
Breathless
Dead weight drop
Meander away
Smiling to myself
Like
I said
Skip the rope
RJ reads "Strangle Hold":
Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos.
RJ confesses:"Movies and TV strangle on-screen. Theaters strangle onstage and books strangle on the page. Samuel Little strangled numerous people in real life. Curiosity asked, what was it like? Not for the wronged victim but, for the deliberate killer. Imagination flipped the view from terrified prey to cruel hunter seeking to answer the question."
RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan.
