fighting the good fight

fighting the good fight                                                                                                  

battling the braying rote of bureaucrats who parlay procedure and protocol as if         

they were priests                                                                                                            

and the Bible their snarling dogma

I guess it comes down to who has the bigger dog in the fight

                                                                                         and they expect my dog     

to roll over and die

well                                                                                                                                    

he can play dead                                                                                                            

then when they come walking up to nudge him with the toe of their boot hell take  

that toe off up to their groin                                                                                             

and with their femoral artery thrown open like a floodgate at Hoover Dam                 

theyll  -  unable to run on two legs  -  lay where they fell and writhe and go             

pasty-coloured like yellow fat cut from meat to make up suet and tallow

and when their artery has belched and collapsed                                                              

Ill skate on the wet mud and finger their bulging eyes shut

trained dogs obediently die every day for their Masters

me and mine                                                                                                                                       

well play dead and wait for the next point-man

1635,  Friday,  16  11. 12

a sign

stooped  he scribbled it on a scrap of paper off his knee so he would not forget

              not memorable per se

but eminently curious

as he walked up main street he came upon a Christian Science Church marquee 

which read:

What God Directs

God Protects

and over the top of the marquee, just beyond it, like a halo

was a bright sign that read:

Star Struck Salon

                                                                                                       and in a single 

imperturbable glance he read, top to bottom:

Star Struck

What God Directs

and in One fell swoop

every vocal Christian fundamentalist canker sore he had ever heard was aligned

and understood:

God was seriously funny

He had a wicked sense of black humor

Sunday Evening,  24  7. 11 

Mysteries

when he call himself out 

--  Where the hell do you think youre going

he screamed

--  Who the hell do you think youre talking to  Aint going nowhere  Im figuring this out

but no matter how many arms he twisted                                                                       

faces he grated on raw concrete or rusty chainlink fences 
                                                             or liberated barbedwire across the palms of restrained hands
they werent sayin

he was willing to abuse
                          not kill

they forsook him for his lack of compunction 

they wouldnt shake out 

they held their wicked little secrets tight

and as he watched it play out behind their bright wet eyes into abject delirium he could see its shadow at the edges of their eyes where they receded into their heads 

where once they were red-tinted
                                   there were tongues of dazzling white spirals
caustic

         lapping

game

none would say what its point was

grim

none would say where the game went
cyclic                  

ceaseless

a wicked little secret

a spiral living on its inertia

even black eyes couldnt diminish

tough  fucking  customers

--  Where the hell do you think youre going

--  Im out

--  Thought you were going to figure this one out

--  I was wrong  Some mysteries ought not be known

0009,  Sunday,  22  9. 13