after the trial
the last of my grass, once again down at the bottom of the bag
someday I shall live like I want to, and the world be damned
I’ll grow my own grass, sit in my own rooms
without interruption
sipping coffee and alcohol, smoking my pipe, writing these
letters to the air
I have come to realize that no matter what you do
they will always throw you back on trial
even if they have to put you through double-jeopardy
for any old already-argued experience
your coworkers, your boss, your friends and enemies
the institutions, the governments, the society tea clubs
your parents, your wife, your children, even grandma
and always, too,
yourself
so many court battles and conversations
echoing through the head
a man is always a defendant and first-hand witness
to his own innocent life
on the stand and specified in all directions and districts,
dynamic levels and
juries in alternate dimensions, lobbied-over, wobbling and
tumbling, cascading and crumbling into himself as he
stands living now, flesh and breath and
undeniable, undying, even when the flesh and breath have
gone and even the cold
grave has been forgotten, the trial goes on, and the man is not
decided
so the smoking pipe, the coffee, the phone calls, recess,
athletics in the yard
every proceeding receives its breaks, and still every open door
is another world
and so, your Honor, in the charge of pleading innocent first, I
find myself guilty
hereby sentencing myself to a long life and a carnivalous
multitude of hearings
and appeals;
may I suggest I find myself a good team of
lawyers and attorneys, take
comfort in the right places, and try to keep a friendly
demeanor with those I meet
now let us put down the drinking cups, smother the ashes and
get back;
another court marshall has arrived, the newsman says the
queen’s been beheaded,
natural disaster has struck the coasts of Sri Lanka, tonight a
singing organist is on
the late show
and this one’s in
the books
Tags: books, Joseph Greenwood, Pipe Etchings, by Joseph Greenwood
