They gave me the "tour", still in handcuffs, first, up the infamous
elevator where many a trouble maker paid their due, without witnesses, (in that regard, there's a tale about a guy who instead beat up
two St. Paul PD, but with his feet) and then through the gauntlet between pens and holding cells on a warm
Saturday night, unscathed but still
blinded, cries of the detainees bemoaning the full moon.
In one cell a stunning young woman stood alone,
defiant behind shatterproof glass, rake thin, proud of her screams as captivating as any wild animal, their intensity justified with a
declaratory smile mocking the injuries to my eyes as they met her gaze, as though demanding I be handed over to her, that liquid line from cheek to jaw
taught, flexing, and clenching.
And then at once, the
trance broken - I found myself released into the rabble, with no visible
organization to it, as if though that must disturb the incarcerated waiting processing there.
So
inured of the nature of anger and its frustration, I offered my own
ministrations for calm, to be rejected and restated again without offense or
sight, a blind monk among priests and kings in the City of Thieves
... tanuki *
for a few cups of sake
recites the sutras
recidivists crowd the shrine
offering prayers all night long
* tanuki; mischief, magic, and change
No comments:
Post a Comment