At The Mercy Of A Higher Hand

 third and debarbra and fourth and imperato

  The man shuffles the deck, kicks his boots.
He'd excuse himself from the place and take to the road
wondering off he wanders on
reminiscing when the day will come
and thinking bout' them days of old,
he would petition the lord in heaven for good measure
and a bit of  betterment,
the peacock, pelican, and phoenix for stregnth, a hedge of protection,
and sense of discernment.
There would be no starting over but
rather making the best of what's left,
damn it, it was a day like none other yet one
like all the rest.
it was a midsummer night in May
where whistler winds sharp as fangs
tried to kill a man,
not to stab him in the back but to shoot him in the vein,
and then look the other way.
He'd  write a song about it-
The dispassion and the wickedness, the catheter
and tourniquet, and for a minute there he fell,
fallen over like a broken leaf
and was scattered all across the street
from the hospital, on a hill under construction.
They were all in on it-
 a three ring circus ranging from
 the EMS, doctors and nurses to
 the department of fire and the city's finest,
but the poison nurse with Middle Eastern accent was like sushi-a fish out of water
 with Middle Eastern accent that couldn't hit the vein.
The bitch couldn't hit the mark, couldn't hit the fucking mark,
so something would save the man,
pardoning him from the throe and annal, whips and arrows,
of death and dying, dying and death,- hallelujah.
"It's not very good as it is," says the man, So
may as well just get on with it instead.
The man would complain and they'd
arrest him for harassment for all that he underwent.
So it goes, and what would be would be,
yet in the good book the lord says
'vengeance is mine. So there you go,"
 the  man's reassured.
These courts here on this rock of earth all too often fall all too short,
all but a pig circus and kangaroo court. 
These courts don't hold the heart in judgment
but in contempt,
for the higher palm of a higher hand is the one who does
advise and give consent.

------------

"The cop" the man recalls, hoovering over him like a ghost with folded arms,

just wanting to have the satisfaction of being

the last chiming ghastly glimpse and final nocturnal image

before the man would eclipse and gasp his last and final  breath.

The room was different, as he'd lay there on his mattress  

like it were his whipping post he'd think,

and sat against the wall was the RN,

straight ahead like sushi, like a fish out of water

and staring dead center ahead at the man's cross,

"you're done," the man told her.

So they and them would pour dirt on the truth,

and bury it with lies on First and McGovern

and Second and Ferguson 'neath distorted

light. They pound down on their chest,

and raise up there fist, but the day of reckoning is not up to us,

for judgement is hanging in the balance as

the hour of day will come

when Jesus will catch up to you like a mosquito bite. 

   Like a bad omen the puckish moon stalks the man

and the chain link fence the dogs would crash

breaking up all the magnolia in a thrash,

bud, bloom, and blossom, our justice of the peace,

stamping her out and voting her down, just like that.

The car across the street hit the gas instead of breaks

making a costly mistake

gridlock traffic at full swing.

It's a mean rain and heavy as a mountain peak,

it's been such a bad streak every single day of the weak.

Enzo Malagisi

August, 2011

original to the blog

"The Curse of Timeless Existence" and "Black Widow 1"

by Christopher Conte

http://microbotic.org