to board vehicles of haste
to race to their place in line
along asphalt lanes
or to board mass transit trains
to horde and to strut,
to hustle their way to play
the shameful game of win-loose
to choose to suck life
from offspring of their own kind.
Find me a reprieve
to alleviate this ache
of wasted human cortex.
I grieve this vision
From Compton’s heartless musings
conceived to enslave.
For me there will be no truce.
I cannot shake loose his grip
upon my outlook
stripped of soothing denial
that numbs one’s questions
making a shaking psyche
wrapped in a fierce will to live.
Would I kill? Could I?
Did I . . . contrive . . . lie . . . and win?
Was his loss my sin?
Compton spoke; I spoke;
We all talked, stalked tense ideas,
obscured perceptions
in dark shadows of commerce
cast by the bright light
of day to day, nine to five
beehive hopping stall to stall
in eye-popping malls
where competing vendors lure
sweet seeking insects
to endure their surrender
of labor’s legal tender.
These verbal exploits
Were nonsense turbulence praised
As real coherence.
[The Defense]
Mister Walsh, might I speak for him?
As you are to protect and serve
the innocent who is a possible victim
and deserves your selfless wisdom
to intervene between machines
of power, profits and raw force,
I am to show his course was forced.
My client’s voice exudes remorse
and seeks forgiveness without need.
In deed he committed no crime
but to defend his life and hers.
Late night, in bed, naked and scared,
awakened to a snapping door jam slammed
by a one-man battering ram
dropped in the small hall in clear view
of the wide open bedroom door
through which the deadly bullet flew,
he slew his brazen enemy.
Crazy, this man is not crazy.
He’s dazed in the maze of ill fate
startled by Finality’s curse,
a black hearse driven by his hand.
Without a slight whisper of doubt
from night stand he can land his shot
center mass of dark intrusion
with one smooth move to grab his gun
with left hand passed to right to aim – shoot.
It was no fluke to cause death fast.
His last practice was flawless scores.
Put to the test, would we do less?
Truly self-defense – all agree.
Why, then, must he clear himself here?
We’ve heard words that claim him deranged,
inflamed with rage . . . slightly hidden.
Thus liberties are forbidden.
Noncompliance of treatment rules
schooled many to see him aloof,
detached, deserving your reproof
as uncontrollable, unchecked,
and most frightfully unyielding.
Wielding such conviction you miss
Kevin Jacobs’ true nemesis.
He found that he’s bound as Death’s friend
who ends life to take sustenance
as consequence for his own breath.
He’s not mad. He’s profoundly sad.
Deeply in love with love returned
he earned affections barred by law.
Scared by testicular domain
to constrain the bloom of soft souls
withering in the cool, calm shadow
that delivers no needed warmth,
Kevin’s new mate abated fear
and seared her wounded self to him.
Slim chance her possessive husband
would refund her freedom to be
serenely happy and in love.
Above any other concern
he’d discern their protected lair
and bare down upon them with force
in due course to end their fair days.
There are times when those of power
miscalculate the dark hour
when small men refuse to cower,
devour their fear and strike back.
Henry Twisting’s late night attack
bore proof of that transmuting fact.
And now Kevin’s mind and heart stripped
of defensive denial grips
the truth of original sin.
We are all of us flawed by birth.
But being flawed does not resend
the right to be haunted and free.
Release him, immediately.
[Marlo]
This strong argument
rings true and works to prevent
solitude’s torments.