Angels in Shit

1 03 2010

Dungheaps concrete. Behind a bronze glass veneer clank hearts empty as money. Peril in panorama. One soul is barely a smudge of grease on a panting mania. Impersonal as the gleam from a patrolman’s sunglasses. The noise of snarling dogs is charming by comparison. Man is surely a pliable creature to have worked his way into this shell. Ants of steel jitterbug to a diesel hiss; a vague sax baritone fumes.

Rumors hint that there was Justice once. Beauty too, existed. It still may somewhere. I was commissioned to understand all of this, but I was too foolish to demand my toll in advance, so I plod from week to week like any other sucker on the company clock. I puzzle at the cruelty and the ill-hidden smirks on the faces of the privileged, especially when their duty calls for them to brutalize. This countenance is true pornography.

But then, I am not left to define the obscene, merely to observe it. There are examples wherever I look. It is tempting to think that my outlook is itself perverted. Only angels in shit, spare me this conclusion. They are also everywhere,
like pristine maggots with pure wings. Pale butterfly spirits drubbing against a sinister dropcloth. Yes, they are my paycheck, these bright drips on the
hood of darkness, valiant and doomed.

Everywhere I look I see angels at work doing their best.
They’re each in the small business of making order in a world of
chaos. Their little areas are like peaceful islands in a sea of
violence and turmoil. Like wide-eyed simpletons shooting for
Yale on a forty I.Q. or one-legged hurdlers going for the gold
they are but whispers in a hurricane.




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