A fruitless exercise, I assess the scales of justice
teetering in my head, the sensitivity of the beam
like a perpetual motion machine connecting dozens
of other juggling acts dependent upon one another
for balance—not like drafts of cattle weighed
to be paid for, no easy answer with a number.
Inside the dark cavern of my skull, a three-ring
circus juggling facts and intuition with the low
and silent grace of a Red Tail on the kill,
with poetic conversations with the gods and all
my angry rants at play—I am prejudice, too long
reading bovine thoughts and equine attitudes
to ignore what I see beyond the hard evidence.
Well out of the mainstream, far from the current
innocence, I am biased and about half-deaf.
drycrikjournal 