poem for Emily Apple and Val Swain (et al)

Black noise uniform disrupted by white noise,

Splinters the righteous indignation with throat-grabbing,

Worms in the dirt spitting on his shoes won't help

A screeching logic halted by abuse,

Pressure points on the neck

Kicking up dust but is it really necessary to tie the legs?

An apathy synonomous with atrophy,

Intelligence more a croquet mallet in the presence of the megaton hammer cock

So pale, weakly defiant of a nonsense, still only white

noise to the steaming off cement,

or in the back of a truck,

detained for no reason

Other than noises colliding

only one of which sensible,

Which is to say stifled

There are no checks and balances.

Dust off, arise.
Spit in his cloudy eyes.