Political Existentialist

Political Existentialist

Mark Coleman

Knick, knack, paddy wagon. Give the cat a salmon. The cry of “fresh fish” rings out of the great hubbub of hoots and hollers. Someone’s pleased with the new arrival, who sulkily progresses, chin to chest. All the childhood beatings replaced by brutal rape. Gotta grow out of the razor strop, and jump into the long pants. Soul screaming Attica.

Sadly, the prison doctor is no Kevorkian. And, for Christ’s sake, did they really have to take his belt away? All that he really wants is out. Not some humdrum-boredom-out, either. He’s the tired, not the genius, type. D.A. slam dunked the jury. D.N.A. a mile away from secondary. Driftwood among ad hoc testimonies. Little pieces of shit carved perfectly to fit the jigsaw format. Whittled by toothless crack whores, and friends turned informers. The type of fuckers who are so dirty that they have to blow their way into the system.

Gutter groupies. Bodies like cracking AIDS scabs. Stick it in, and prepare for a slow death. Chewing the festering fat between the thighs. Audacity to wonder where you went wrong as you spew hate speech from a bar stool in Pennsylvania. Black tying it up for some Fox News schmuck, who thinks that M.L.K. was a joke. Waiting to break the “Beck Only” barrier as you rope-a-dope. Grinning so profoundly that your friends start to check your lap for a Linda Lovelace knot top.

Jesus God, you wanna swing now, but it will be so much better if you hold back. Bite your lip and chafe a bit. Then Joe Frazier the motherfucker. Down, down, down, and…out. Championed, but shackled. Drugged, but sober. Nothing left to write about. No one left to read.