1 Poem by
Ace Cabbage
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Miss Law
Oh, I imagine
Miss Law's kisses...
like question marks
along perforations
and permutations
in and of the
papier mache tombstones
of the degenerate.
The beaten convicted.
In court my whole
name read- in relation
to reports of stolen
property receivery.
Judge peers over
pearl-arm tortoise
something or other
half-glasses. Kilroy style.
Those glasses,
they make me think
of hundred dollar bills
bivouacked in the weedy
backyard of some shut-in.
And me standing
in the gallery with
today's blue-suits... The
feloniously impoverished.
Poor people sometimes can
see my soul separate,
instinctively know when
no-one's here. When
the projection
occurs, only poor ghosts
see the perforation...
tic-tearing a ghost
from a body rich only
in goosepimples.
Spirit/body, a parka, the
zipper hanging up
at the bottom in
crucial moments.
Seems the baliff spots
it too. Me leaving.
And being no less
hero than anyone else,
the shit brown sheriff
uniform smears
across the court-
room floor,
tidal wave peristalsis
in the direction of me,
an astral abscondant
desperado, he's struggling
to stick an outstretched
jailor hand hymenesque
over my delinquent
pineal gland.
It's a yellow-bellied
marmot, you know,
who knows when
it's time to head
back into the hole.
I'll never know
what it is about
stainless steel with
crosshatched wood
accents that bullies me
like grade school
sissy contests.
hup-hup...
back in!
Miss Law winks
my first name
so only I can hear.
She knows I'm not
a bad guy.
Pretty
enough for espionage,
she is.
When she got me
I knew she didn't belong
in that cop uniform.
A stone fox in Teflon.
Giddy then guilty I see
my faithful lady, jealous
in the spectator pews.
Oh, Miss Mandy Law
she's too smart to be law.
Too beautiful
and tragically smart
to have any faith in
black and white?
The linear language
of those who would
buy and sell her, if they
got the chance.
So hot...
She inspires
crime waves- crime
rates spiked when she
became the Heat.
She
inspires sweat and
exhaustion and could
warm a Monday morning
arraignment in winter.
In recess, she's
warming the recesses
of my brain sinking
surgically
through soft tissue.
Magnetically administering
imaginative arousal.
I'm begging her:
Miss Law, come with
me- be on my side
in revolution?
When you used
my first name
in testimony, I swear
it left a bite mark
on my chest.
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