Always a playground instructor,
never a killer. Always a bridesmaid
on the verge of fame, or over,
he maneuvered two girls into his
hotel room. One, a friend,
and a newer stranger, vaguely
Mexican or Puerto Rican.

Poor boy’s thighs and buttocks, scarred
by a father’s belt. She’s trying
to rise. Story of her boyfriend
And teen-age stone death games.
Handsome cat, dead in a car.

Come here
I love you.
Peace on earth
Will you die for me
eat me
this way
the end

-I’m surprised you could get it up.
He whips her lightly, sardonically
with a belt.
-Haven’t I been through enough? she asks.

The dark girl begins to bleed.
It’s Catholic heaven. I have an
ancient Indian crucifix around
my neck. My chest is hard
And brown. Lying on stained and
wretched sheets with a bleeding Virgin.
We could plan a murder, or
Start a religion.

— Jim Morrison, An American Prayer, "Angels and Sailors"