Pulling Punches Like Picasso

Standard

This courthouse is a theater house.
For me, at least.
But I’m not trying to make a mockery of justice
or a farce of these proceedings,
though it may be a small tragedy
with some comedic bits thrown in for effect
perhaps.

Last time around I was all Giacomo Casanova in front of the judge,
daring him to put me away,
imploring him,
because I’d just cover my cell walls in paintings of saints
or clowns
or poems written on Sailor Jerry rum labels
and burrow the fuck out of there
anyways.

And then I was all Galileo,
taking the sentence but refusing to change
a
fucking
sentence,
even if I am to be confined
indefinitely.

“I tell you, verily, your honor, that you may be very wrong about this entire affair.”
But this ain’t 1611
or Rome
and I ain’t no astronomer
and I couldn’t care less about the center of the universe
at this particular point in time
because I’m far more concerned about the Center of Justice
and
more specifically
the adjoining Center of Detainment.

So I decided to pull punches like Picasso,
who smiled and nodded and consented
when the Nazi philistines occupying his beloved Paris
told him that he was no longer permitted to paint,
under penalty of imprisonment
or death.
But Pablo didn’t care
one bit
because he had already decided to try his hand at writing plays instead.
And besides,
no bad injustice can keep a good artist down
for long,
unless they be no true artist to begin with.

I have had extensive experience with lengthy sentences just not of this sort so forgive me if I’m a little out of character here because I’ve got more time
hanging
over
my
head
than
Rip Van Winkle.

Always a mockery of justice or a tragedy of justice
but never a comedy of justice.
And why is that?
Because there’s absolutely nothing funny about it
and a gavel crack is not a laugh track,
especially when you have a track record of recidivism
that might get you drafted into the big leagues,
so to speak.

Well, I heard Folsom has a fantastic debate team.

Justice
Just ice
Just the tip of the iceberg and you don’t even see it until it’s too late and the band’s playing
“Nearer, My God, To Thee,”
except you ain’t near to anything more divine save perhaps
membership in the prison choir,
which is,
incidentally,
the group doing the rendition of the aforementioned
Con Swan Song.

You can confiscate my fountain pen,
break all my guitar strings,
cut out my vocal chords
and snap my strumming hand,
torch all my journals and notebooks and
erase from existence every last note I ever dragged into this world,
but I’d still just smile and nod
like Picasso,
because I decided to give up painting for plays
long before you told me to
anyways.

End scene.

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