Dessert Law Write-Ins

Papers arrived: The Law. Prose of imperative be-ribboned in fey grammar.  Trickle-down discourse barked in the language of command; written, copied, distributed as far and wide as the global jurisdiction of Their rockets.  Even the same old same is not the same as it was – or seemed.

Watch the News. See Their SWAT teams bust erstwhile “hard-working, law-abiding” citizens — who still assume, poor saps, that as “citizens” crammed into the warped belly of this Trojan Horse, they’re “entitled” to some godforsaken damn thing or other — America! America! America! (said with a straight face).

Shoot ‘em and abuse ‘em unto madness  “of thee I sing.”  Meanwhile, folks at the distant convex of  screen seek sin without consequence, privy as they are to the Greater Picture.

Jim and Susie on the front lawn sip warm backwash of last night’s beer. What a blast it had been, block party, Night Raid Entertainment provided by the Sheriff and his posse (legally deputized; tipped generously) who busted down a “neighbor’s” door in search of weapons, literature, narcotics (not-so-secret shibboleths for “You are vulnerable to whatever we nail you for, whatever satisfies, whatever sticks”).

The working men grow restless. So damned hungry, famished, for blood, pussy, power over those blind to the loveliness of Paradise, those who light not fire-crackers, yet blaspheme the night.

“Sprinklers for every half-acre of lush desert lawn are a shameful waste of water,” those molly-coddled milksops yodel to every camera in Town.

(but smell the sweetness of cut-grass blades!)

Gotta be sweet or it’s just bad, really bad, all the way bad, puke-piss temple of soupy night and hard turf darkness down as your daughter’s misery index bad (lonesome as Coyote reading Gertrude Stein by light of campfire and smog-blurred moon…), that kind of  bad, real bad.

Coyote howled: “I ain’t interested in nuclear infamies of kings, but low watt, barely audible frustrations mumbled day-to-day by numb fragments of history, like you, like me, bequeathed (by what? by whom?) three-score years and ten, more or less, of thought, memory, consciousness in Time, of what it meant, then, and what it means, now, to be so finitely aware –”

— before The Posse shot Coyote dead and left him cold to rot.  A token offering to vulture capitalists who circle the brown Heaven-sky like inky Rorschach ghouls.

Sue Warrior, a self-described "couch potato with only two eyes," has published poetry, fiction, essays and articles in various on-line and hard-copy journals. She has no cats. Nor does she own a car, prefering to travel to from her home to her studio by bicycle or if absolutely necessary, on foot. Read other articles by Sue.