Tag Archives: rage

New Horror Novel Out: The Dweller

Dweller Cover FINAL PRODUCT

I have a new horror novel out now on Amazon that delves into my musings on perception, dreams and the spirit world—and just in time for the holidays! You should definitely check it out!

 http://www.amazon.ca/Dweller-Hernan-Monzon-ebook/dp/B00OVKYPWY/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1414252310&sr=8-6&keywords=the+dweller

Why You Had To Kill A Man

He put your sister in the hospital
again
so now you’ve got to do something about it,
don’t you?
Fuck if he’s your friend.

You pull over by the shed.
There he is,
fold-out chair on gravel half in the shade
looking like a dead man.

“I’m sorry, Man.” He keeps saying.
“I’ll get help. Things will be different
from here on in, I swear.”

And you could hear the same thing
so many times from every
addict, rapist and murderer out there
that it almost seems comical
once you stop believing them.

“You’re my friend, right?” He continues.
His hands groping all over yours
eager for some sort of forgiveness
to what he considers is a flash
in the Goddamn pan that’s how
fucked up he is.

“See,” you hear yourself say.
Words seething out through gritted teeth.
“what the did I do last time but
just stand there and smile?
Just fucking smile?

The truth is that you’re a child.
Just a big, overgrown stupid kid
that swings at whatever
abuses your ego
and you can’t be fixed
because you’re not smart enough.”

You don’t give time to respond.
You can’t hesitate for a second
because he’s bigger than you
stronger
meaner.

Instead you hit him across the face
hard with the tire iron
again and again
because your sister was on life support
so he obviously didn’t deserve his.

You’re my friend, right?

When he stops moving
for good
you throw the iron
on his unbreathing chest
prints and all
because you want everybody to know
that you had done this.

That was the whole Goddamn point.

You didn’t bring a shovel
because you had no intention of burying him
so you leave him there.
You leave that place
but you’ll take it with you
wherever you go
from here on in.

It’s easier to do what you need to get done
at night cause when it’s over
you can toss it in a ditch or
kill the lights and not have to
look at it anymore
but when the morning comes
the sun will uncover your sins
as it burns a hard glare
across everything
and what you’ve done
will follow you
deep into the next night
and every night thereafter
and they’ll follow you
until they catch you
because no good deed goes unpunished
-years behind bars
just scratches on the wall
and hours in the yard
while she replaces this asshole with an
even bigger one
next time she’s crooked for a fix
and it’s just the way it is.

So you just keep fucking driving
as long as there’s road
that leads to somewhere else
though it all seems to lead
to the same place
in the end.

But right now
feels good,
doesn’t it?

A Mad Woman, a Shovel and an Icy Embankment of Existential Angst

My Russian neighbour’s wife,
she has a lot of heft to her and she wields it like
a battle-axe in a field full of dead Scotsman.

She likes to spend her time shovelling the snow
and for reasons beyond my mortal grasp
she will shovel the holy flying fuck
out of everything in sight
for hours at a time.

Because I hear it from my window
all day long
day after day
when it’s not even snowing
and hasn’t for days.

First she’ll do the driveway
then the adjoining neghbour’s
then the sidewalk
the edges all around
twice
and finally the front lawn
all with this look of rage darkening her pale face
turning it red
while she pushes that shovel hard in deep as though
she were killing a small furry animal
or destroying the lives of the innocent.

I know that there’s something wrong with her.
Some people wear crazy
all over their face.
You could see it.
You could smell it.

So while I was out salting my driveway
the other day
as she shoveled away
I began to dance
because in being a
stand up stand straight standout guy
I thought it would bring some levity
to her existential angst
as she furiously drove the shovel in
cracking large chunks of ice
like they were the backs of the weak.

She most likely hated her reality,
despised her kids,
hated Canada and Canadians.
Americans, them too.
Probably hated her husband most of all

and when she was done here
she was going to go back inside
and beat him half to death
or worse, fuck him.

I could picture his face grimacing
as she enveloped him in the folds of her flesh
screaming out as she thrust angrily,
screaming something about the good old days of Stalin.

He probably didn’t like it. I know I wouldn’t. Christ.

I was on the road now
shaking my two cups full of road-salt
in each hand
like they were maracas
feet like Usher, like Beiber, like Timberlake
all rolled into one Godless pointless fuck
as she continued to pound the handle
deeper into China.

She hated sunlight and music,
ice cream and happiness.
She hated not being in chains.

She wished that unicorns existed
just so she could stab one to death
with its own horn.

I was dancing. I was really shaking it.
I was a giraffe. I was a lion.
I was a monkey.

She plowed away at grass now
throwing chunks of frozen earth
onto the road.

She hated Ghandi and Bambi.
She hated things that slept peacefully.
She hated things that tried to crawl away
from the merciless hammer of industrialization.

I was doing the robot, the running man.
I was hustling into another dimension.
She thrust her shovel deep into an embankment of ice
and started heaving pieces of it
over towards me.

I danced out of the way,
thank you, Mr. Timberlake.

Her husband peeked his head out the door
and asked her something.
Face flushed, she turned and started screaming at him
in Russian most likely telling him
to go to Hell in a really creative way.

Overall, my dancing had little effect
as she still seemed as angry
as Hitler giving a speech
so all that effort was for naught.

She still hated God, the government, gravity.
She hated words, shapes and colours.
She wished that everything was at the bottom
of the Black Sea and from the looks of things
she intended to dig us all there
right now.

In fact, she was out there
as I was typing up this little ditty.
Scrape scrape scraping away.

I turned up the Bach
so that I didn’t have to hear her anger
in my living room.

There is just something
about classical music
that moves the soul
into sunlight.

Don’t you think?
Maybe she should try it.

Homicidal Tendencies

I am convinced that everyone
has within them
homicidal tendencies
shimmering just beneath the surface
like secret electricity.

I can see it when they smile
in their teeth
the brightness of their eyes
the firmness of their handshake
I’ll call you tomorrow
I can see it in fathers at dinner tables
or in the short, old man
behind the register
I can see it in her face
when she tells me that she loves me
and I see it in you
right now.

I know what’s in your heart
because I know what is in mine.

So what is this, a confession?
an admission of sorts?
a promise?

Fuck it,
would you like to go for a walk?

Rage is a Paper Plane

“Sorry to hear that
all the sour bitches
have click their heels
all over your face
on their way out.

Isn’t this the sixth one
in two weeks?
Sounds like you have more problems
than most men have opportunities
so don’t sweat it
or do…
go hit a bag
write a song
pet a cat
flap your wings and build a treehouse
get it out of your system.
You heard it here first.”

I hung up the phone
and laughed as I cracked a beer
on the coffee table.

Some people get what they ask for
without even realizing that they ask for it and

rage is a paper plane
for all the good that it does.