SLACK AGAINST THE COMMITTEE - A CHARM
for Dolly Turing
The moon blushes from worship,
feeling sorry. Ten stories above
the cellar the committee meeting,
people are made to act out,
like lawyers of precious old
time, & time is currency. Time,
the diurnal departure from life
forced and regulated, pressure valve
turned two quarters to left
airflow, the flume, the unbearable
leaking, traces of hair & skin left
quiet in the boardroom, because fuck
the boardroom, the ballots, proportionally
represented illuminations, each twenty
three by twenty three harmonic inches
basic in a self regulating unconscious
pattern. It's not on purpose. The force
of regulation is a jail the brain walks
in with good will hoping the
wall this time can stand for what,
Justice? A Just jail rising in its concrete
strength to support the weaker weight
of the tired body, the doors and windows
wide open. But they suck, They haven't
the power to slack even for a minute,
every slant is a tooth, albeit soft
& gracious & all the finance we could
dream of. The REM stops and tightens
blinkered, becomes another meeting
in the polystyrene conference hall; those
that meet well eat first the head down
sucker in structure, no moon to take
the whole the day off.
