Tim Miller was born in 1979 and began writing soon after. His first book, Ash and Other Poems (1998) was followed by a selection of a majority of his poetry (along with two other poets) in Illegible Stone (Key 20 Publishing, 1999). In February of 2000 he founded Six Gallery Press, the Midwest's answer and update to that Mecca of Beat poetry and literature, San Francisco's City Lights Books. Tim's limited-edition pamphlet Acceleration was Six Gallery Press' first release, and with The Valley of Ashes he brings together the best of his poetry and prose so far. He is currently obsessed with three major works soon to be released, Death by Water, Estranged, and Confessions from the True Mad North of Introspection. At the moment he lives in Geneva, Ohio, but occasionally transcends suburbia to a mindset wherein he doesn't hesitate to scream nonsense at people from his car window.
from "The Confessions of Cain"
Assuming I don't kill myself afterwards, I sometimes wonder what they'd do to me. I suppose it matters how many people I kill, but for the sake of argument say the minimum: five students and one, maybe two teachers. I'm pretty sure even that would get me the death penalty.
It's kind of funny: I really loved this comic I saw in the paper when the jury was deliberating over Timothy McVeigh. It was just a reproduction of the photo of that firefighter carrying that blooded-up baby--you know, the one that made the cover of Time. Except now the kid's saying something like, "Please, no more violence, stop the killing," while the firefighter says something like, "Shut up--this is justice." It's so funny. I want to shake that guy's hand, whoever did that comic. These decent Christian people, so full of forgiveness until someone they know or love is killed. One guy even said that the death penalty was made for crimes like the Oklahoma City Bombing, that no one had ever deserved the death penalty more than Timothy McVeigh. No one even cares why he did it.
And they did the same thing with Columbine, reducing the entire thing to racism or wardrobe. They don't care why it happened, and after they spend their five hours on TV babbling about gun control or how unsafe our kids are, someone has the gall to say that by discussing Dylan and Eric we're giving them the notoriety and fame they sought. These people are more worried about not giving two dead kids what they wanted than figuring out why they wanted it. We're still under their control.
I've never worn a trenchcoat in my life, but I haven't a problem with them. I don't see the point in racism, either. Once you really get to know someone you find out there's a lot better and more justifiable reasons to hate them that the color of their skin. And it's true that I've listened to Marilyn Manson a few times but I don't like him enough to wear his T-shirts. And unless you count this one time when I took a hit off a clove, I've never done drugs of any kind. I do have a bad relationship with my parents and most of my peers, but who doesn't? My school probably doesn't even see me coming. I haven't written any suggestive short stories in English class, I haven't threatened anyone, and when I get beat on I rarely fight back. I probably look like a petrified pacifist. It's been going on for so many years that they probably think I've accepted my role in the student population, as so many others have.
But I'm no different than you--I fully admit that. I admit that the actions I plan to do are mere mirrors of the society that I criticize. By exacting the death penalty upon someone who has hurt me, I am seeking not reform but revenge. I don't want to rehabilitate them, to sit down and philosophize with them and show them that I am as much a human being as they are, that we should actually be friends. No. I want them dead.
There is no room for catharsis in this world anymore, for right or wrong. The only acceptable emotion for a male animal to express is anger. I've been taught this, not to cry, not to care, to look the other way, to let others alone in their own business. I have been taught that I am to get good grades. And for what? Not to learn, not to retain, but to spew back when asked, and perhaps get a discount on car insurance.
What would become of me if I continued down this road? Let's see: I'd go to college and continue to get good grades, then I would find a wife, then I would move to the suburbs, then I would have children, and sooner of later I would die. Sometime in between then I might attend a charity golf tournament, or watch the Oscars and wish I could be on TV.
I have been taught that I am nothing more than a member, a number, in an economic machine. I am productive, I am an achiever, and the only way that I can seek happiness and contentment is through the vast avenue of materialism and selfishness. Occasionally I would be expected to interact with other "people" (if you want to call them that), other functions in the alienating machinery of a world that seeks not friends but associates, not loved ones but stepping stones and connections to promotion.
I have no tears left. I never have. I'm surprised anyone does, that we can cry over anything but our burning buckets of lost dollars. What is a dead son or daughter to you but a failed investment, a deflated balloon blown full of your contrived parental aspirations and hopes that run contrary to every fiber and yearning of the heart? "Get your money! Get your money! Get your money!" "Get laid! Get laid! Get laid!" That's it. Ridiculous the sad waste. We have descended to the bare minimum and will stay there. Even if we aren't just impulses, it's still all we have time to be. We're better off dead anyway.
