[Newspoetry] Curious Michael?

[DL Emerick]

Alternative theory, standing poetic?

Motivation is infinite for any event.
The totality of time stands back,
aghast that any event could be found,
exposed, like worn and eroded rock faces,
protruding from the soil of a hill side.

The judge has chambers for robing,
disrobing, in rituals of hiding being,
under a cloth, here it is black,
but over there, on Sunday morning,
or Saturday night, they wear white.

Yes, being under the cloth is odd,
it makes you think of judging god,
and when it comes to size, a robe
hides pouch and all its package,
hides it for angelical neutrality.

They sit behind a bench, though,
after they parade into the room,
making us all rise as they sit,
a faint kind of royal ordering,
that they sit head higher than ours.

And, there on the bench towering,
above it almost floating is a head,
growing out of the wood rising,
one hand of wood taps and pounds
upon wood, loudly, against noise.

Where is the other hand pounding?
Michael would not see it, either.
It probes below a robe's secrets,
discovers its ancient hidden ways,
plays upon, pounds its own flesh.

It's justice, this heady elevation,
this seeing world from a bench press,
where every one must take your being
just exactly as you would give order,
and never challenge nor defy you.

The case is always somehow almost present,
the other spirit in the court of judges,
the one that never condenses or appears,
regardless of how many witnesses come,
or go, sworn as they may be to the truth;
its character as a case never appears.

Faces are found like events on hillsides,
geologic time is replayed, fast forward.
The gibberish of explanation history mumbles
is translated by men with no tongues to speak,
and no language for holding firmly to truth.

Causality is recorded for species intent
on proving that it makes a difference
which part of history shall be believed,
which part accepted, and relied upon,
for purposes of a punishing inference.

Michael wonders what lies beneath,
what sweeping robes may a fairy hide,
wondering if fair justice ever visits
such a frightful place of fear awing,
where law speaks for jimcrow's cawing.

The residue of robes, shedding being,
do not stay on the pegs in chambers.
They stiffen in the dark, full of starch,
full of spirit, and prowl about courts,
rearguing the cases and finding truth.

The spirits know truth but they speak not,
they merely float, spectres of justice,
sheets in the wind, sheets in the unwinding,
the unveiling that shows nothing within,
robes hide nothing no-ghosts could see.

**---**
inspired by Wilson, by Michael, by a poem
by a purple cow that no one can be, not nohow,
none is ever seen today, anyway, as a "Wow",
even though poets have poked their eyes out,
hoping to be blind enough to the shining lies
that bonfires of hell are lighting in America.