Original Poems For Tim:
...Including A Somewhat "Steamy" Passage
The poems on this page show a variety of feelings, opinions and personalities with regard to Timothy McVeigh. Some mark my anger and confusion, concerning his crime and the many victims he blasted off the face of the earth. OTher poems indicate a sense of understanding for one who's been referred to as "an enigma." There are so many nuances, not to mention a poem that takes a look at this tragedy through the eyes of his father and sister, Jennifer. In other words, everyone has a voice with these works and that's how it should be. I am certainly not trying to portray McVeigh as a man who was victimized by the system and lashed out with a rage that none of us may ever be able to fathom.
Flowers and A Bomb
You offered me roses and a bomb.You brought them to my office at 8:15, grinning ear to ear.
My mundane job as a gofer for the government,
I hungered for any diversion from the stultifying boredom.
You smiled in your deceptively boyish way–--
It was tinged with shyness and an innocent smile.
How refreshing to encounter such a clean-cut young man.
I'm drawn to your dehydrated eyes–I know not why.
I'd arrived at the building early, to impress my austere boss.
He was likely still swathed in bedclothes—what bitter irony.
Searching for a vase, I located a Styrofoam Big Gulp cup.
It was so perfect, for I'd taken such a gulp when I realized
That this incredibly skinny guy, a stranger, seemed to like me.
I wasn't comfortable with the notion that this mysterious man
Stood behind me, laughing wickedly as he mentally disrobed me.
Thank God the office was locked–If not, I'd have explaining to do.
I finally succumbed to his advances, which left me spent and rather giddy.
Those blood-red roses found a resting place on my desk.
My dream man had left, vowing to return and I believed him.
I let every moment of our sexual dalliance replay in my head.
Where did he come from? Would he really come back.
Two days later, I typed wildly, careful to shield my words.
My brittle-hearted boss was middle-aged,with a sizable paunch.
No perfect lines, nor any pinch of electric charisma had touched this man.
I finished my letter, unsure if I should give it to my paramour or not.
Now it was 8:56 AM in Oklahoma City, a sweet and sunny April morn.
I hadn't seen my man for several days, but I knew he'd not abandoned me.
Everyone else in my relatively short life had berated me and hated my guts.
Even my family had written me off as a "hopeless case"–an aberration.
Now it was 9:00 AM and I prepared myself for another eight hours of boredom.
Someday, I vowed, I'll return to school and let my radical side run wild.
As I sat at my cluttered desk, I knew that I had to look for more.
motions.
My mind was kept captive, but didn't prevent me from my luscious daydreaming.
Now, the clock was about to reach 9:02 as I stamped paper together.
Next thing I knew, an extremely loud noise drowned out any screams.
I caught less than a second of an unspeakable and heinous scene,
Before darkness stole me away from the terrifying maelstrom.
It's now June 2nd, 2001 and I lie, unmoving, on a special hospital bed.
My parents had bought it and kept both the bed and myself downstairs.
Like my long-time hero, Christopher Reeve, I am paralyzed from the neck down.
I take frantic breaths by way of a resperator and think of what could have been.
One afternoon, I heard on the news that the convicted bomber
Would breathe his last on the 16th of May—why was I not deliriously glad?
He stole my glorious future and condemned me to a dismal life in my prison.
In that respect I should find some warm comfort with the news, but I do not.
One afternoon, a call came in. Mom put the receiver up to my ear.
Only seconds elapsed before I felt a sharp stab of horror.
It was him—asking if I'd care to join others in a macabre act.
But I told him I'd not watch another meet death.
So many people died at the hands of my ex-friend–so many children.
Could I ever even entertain thoughts of forgiving this twisted man?
As I ruminated, Mom came in with a bouquet of blood roses,
Saying gleefully that my name was scrawled on the tag.
If ever there was a violent catechism of rage, tears and despair,
I personify it and ride that dark horse all the way to hell.
"Take them away! Please, just throw them in the garbage!"
Are you listening, Tim? Did you learn from my pain?
Ambivalence
...Or, Staring Into the Face Of Doom
I held your pain in the palm of my hand,And I tried so hard not to close my fist.
But you pushed and you pushed for a date with St. Peter,
You left us far too soon, my late friend.
I nurtured warm feelings for you,
For your eyes reflected the sorrow you bought.
That difiance, that pride for which you had studied,
Served you well, but made you more hated.
Your bridges were always afire; how they smouldered.
You kept flames alive with your cold calculating.
But you cannot fool me, for I know you too well.
And if that makes you squirm, I feel little regrets.
Now that you are gone, I look all around me,
What I see is sharp anger flashing from those you hurt.
Tim, your legacy should not have been based on such venom.
Had you opted to live longer, you'd have time to reflect.
Few mourn you, I fear, just as they wished you'd suffered.
As you said, you just couldn't prevail with those people.
I so wanted the truth to come out of your soul,
Not some sad fabrcating that no-one has challenged.
I was never at peace when expressing my sadness.
Your death left a crater, deep in my heart.
As you stand before God and He waives all your sins,
May you find, at long last, your life was such a waste.
A Little Bit Of Love On the Row
The last fragments of light were filtering through the small, cramped cell, as I came upon you, half-asleep and with an almost innocent, little boy aura bathing you in the cleansing beams of heaven. I speak softly, just above a whisper, "Tim, wake up. I've come to offer you a brief respite from your nightmare. Just let go of those negative thoughts that have encapsulated you and concentrate only on you and me."The stark iron bars that hold you captive suddenly dissolve into a large heap of twinkling debris and suddenly, I'm standing directly in front of you. Moving even closer, I smile affectionately at you and begin to extricate your emaciated body from the prison garb you've worn for six long years. On this June evening, a day before your execution, you're free--unfettered by the accoutrements of death row life---at least, for now. Now is all that matters. Smiling warmly at you, my eye meet yours and I am struck with the sad emptiness and paralyzing fear that encapsulate them. Why have they reduced you to this, my friend? Why is your future being ripped asunder to assuage the rage of your victims?
Next, I help you out of your briefs and am struck with compassion and sorrow at how very thin you have become. What have they done to you here, Tim?
As I slowly disrobe, I'm oblivious to anyone watching us.
For now, for this short moment in time, nobody can hurt us, nor stop us from consummating our caring for one another. finally we are together, naked and hungry--the kind of ravaging urge much more powerul from the physical kind.
I lie down on your hard, narrow cot and wait for you. At first, you just gaze upon me, then I take your hand, with its impossibly long and narrow fingers feeling icy cold to the touch and pull you down to me. It is my desire to bring warmth to them and to your shredded heart before it's too late. You have to know how much I want to sleep with you.
There is nothing sick or dirty about our lovemaking. You want me to initiate it, so I wrap my legs around you, fearful I will crush your toro but wanting us to intertwine for this one and only time. Suddenly, you begin to respond, takig my chin in your hands and kising me, gently at first, then hard and long, as if you've never been completely lost in love before.
For those moments, there was no execution chamber, no needles, no audiences and no reporters or Barbara Walters. It's just us, now in the thick of our lovemaking. We're bathed in the sweat of desire and physical gratification. You're just the right size for me (sex usually hurts so this is a big plus) and together we reach the soaring crecendo of a blazing hot, ball-breaking orgasm. I don't want this night to end and so, awash in the glorious aftermath, I am physically spent, but mentally rejuvinated.
Maybe I will have your baby. Anything's possible.
I included this passage in a letter I sent to Tim and, perhaps typically for him, that was the letter to which he responded. I still have more to put on this page, but I wanted you to get a look at it first. My words are not what you'd call "sexually explicit" but they were enjoyed by a man who was soon to face death.
Keep checking back for more such posts---they won't be dirty or inappropriate, just words put down on paper who ventured to explore Timothy McVeigh from outside the Oklahoma bombing.
A Conflict Of Interests
I glance about and the hatred is blinding.My emotions betray me; Such rage doesn't become me.
Is it possible escape this choking atmosphere?
I'm a glaring red flag that hovers and is still.
You know you're despised from most, it would seem.
Those negative barbs slit your transluscent aura.
People want blessed closure; I doubt if they'll get it.
They'll only have witnessed another man's death.
I sit with you in your tiny, clean cell.
You've called it your home for over a year.
Is death really better than a life that's so shrunk?
Or are you precariously perched on that proverbial fence?
I'm with you right now in the chamber of death.
You're face is expressionless---that's nothing new.
I smile and hold up my sign made for you:
"Sic semper fidelis," your passionate refrain.
Now the killing is over and news people leave.
There's nothing here now but a sky moved to tears.
Soon you'll fade from all of the staunch angry cries.
Just what have they won? Just the death of another.
