To Deconstruct Such as This

My brother murdered a man.
We wasted an afternoon
over the telephone, and coffee,
as I listened, and he talked.

Being rubbed the wrong way
is merely execution of sound,
angling round corners
of a vulgar amplifying.
But rage is a strangling silence,
syllables dangling, a broken neck
in a noose.

He was in love with the noise
of it all. The loosening of blood,
and brain splats, splunks.
The chunks of bone cracking,
an attack on the still calm
that fidgets in his head.

I kept thinking, "In poetry,
you show, never tell."
Deconstruct the semblances
we blot upon ourselves,
into some viable image.
Death to the chattering excuse!

So my brother killed a man,
and I understood,
as I picked up my sharp sharp pen
taking a stab at this non-sound
hacking through my head.

"Stop squirming ...
It will only hurt for a moment."

"Hold still, while I slaughter
with words, tearing it all down."