PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Oh, do not act so disappointed---like
society is not ruled by its law.
The rule of law has brought both of us here.
That I am executioner and you
soon executed does not mean that we
have become primitives, or criminals,
or some kind of totalitarians.
New laws replaced old laws; philosophies
of right or wrong (or, as we all say "not
appropriate") change with the course of time.
The nation is too soft, or hard, on crime,
its critics (right or left) have often said.
And so the new law, that which brings us here,
has satisfied the critics (for a while,
at least, until they raise some new complaint).
Has it been thoroughly explained to you?---
your are a felon charged with cruelty
toward animals; toward one poor animal.
The court psychologists' report (yes, I
requested it and read it thoroughly)
concluded that you might just graduate
to torturing some beautiful young girl,
based on your demonstrated interest in
such things. You have a need to dominate---
to watch someone or something suffer pain,
as their submission somehow validates
you to yourself as masculine . . . "a man,
"a man's man." Unlike you, I cannot claim
to be a man's man. And, admittedly,
I wept when they told me I had a few
weeks left to live; and then the agony,
that they described, before the stroke of death.
But then the agents of some government
department came to tell me that (because
I had been diagnosed as terminal
in three opinions, indepently
rendered by three random physicians called)
I had the privilige, but contingent on
signing "Do not Resuscitate," to choose
a criminal convicted on one of
the three dates of those diagnoses, and
inflict upon that chosen criminal
such penalty or pains as I desired---
up to the very death, so long as all
commenced and finished in one day, just like
one of the classic rules of tragedy.
To me, though, it is more a comedy,
because your life is neither tragic nor
dramatic; a Grand Guignol comedy,
if such allusion sheds a little light
upon the darkness of your ignorance.
Lex lata?, lex ferenda?, so we must
agree to disagree these last few hours.
What was the poor dog's name? You dare to shrug
in false bravado, you obnoxious boor.
But I remember her name, Jenny. She
had been lost to her owners, without tags,
therefore a stray, and pregnant. You chased her
into the path of an oncoming car
that ran her down and did not stop to help.
Although her two back legs were shattered, she
dragged herself to a nearby ditch that gave
a little shelter and birthed two fine pups
that she, despite the agony she felt,
nursed to the best of her ability,
starving, dehydrated, weak, badly injured.
You thought you had pulled off the ghastly act,
that it would be blamed on a hit and run.
But you had not considered witnesses,
who later filed reports with the police,
and testified against you in the court.
You were sentenced to two years, minimum
security the very same day my
own cells had sentenced me to certain death
with maximum pain (except for morphine).
Oh, yes, I know they found poor Jenny in
that ditch, half dead, but still nursing those pups,
and brought her to a clinic where, with great
heroic effort (and pro bono) they
eased her pain and repaired her shattered limbs,
and nourished her (food, water, medicine)
at great cost to the clinic and themselves.
Now she and both her pups have a new home,
with promise not to be separated,
ever, and never, ever, once abused.
I did my research, and I reimbursed
the clinic for their costs, plus ten percent
toward the next case, and left a trust fund for
the dogs' expense in perpetuity.
Now they will have the very best of care---
food, shelter, grooming, toys, and health for the
duration of their lives. And I will have
the satisfaction, bordering delight,
for the duration of my life. But you
will only have these last twenty-four hours.
Before this illness came upon me, I
had been Professor of Anatomy
and Physiology, especially
its use in---shall we say---collection of
hard information from reluctant mouths.
I know a bit about inflction of
intensest agony without a mess.
Believe me: long before the next sunrise,
you will be quite aware of organs you
have never thought about before, and you
will feel the deepest nuances of pain,
not superficially but deep within
the shadowed recesses of your warped soul.
It is that soul that tortured Jenny; so,
because the soul is only reached through flesh
(at least by man; God has His other ways),
I will address that soul through flesh that twists
and squirms and begs for death repeatedly;
all this, as I have told you, without mess.
I will not spil you out upon this floor.
No janitor should have to mop you up.
The plastic diaper tight around your waist
will catch the gush when bowels and bladder fail.
But look, you have already wet yourself.
I take that as a compliment to my
descriptive skills. My lectures always were
quite popular (so my superiors
said in my annual reviews). My tests,
reputed to be hard and long, always
drew mostly good scores. This will be like them---
quite hard and long for you, but a good score
for me, and for my conscience, to reflect
upon while yet the morphine drip allows
my mind to be itself and not some wild
funhouse or carnival of memories.
Shall we begin? I think so, for the sweat
upon your brow, and wideness of your eyes,
tell me that I am wasting precious time.
The wetness in your diaper, too, suggests
that I have reached the edge of your dark soul.
And having reached the edge, I must plow on
into the center where I shall, soon, press
such havoc as even the likes of you
cannot imagine or accomplish. One
less day for me, and the last day for you.
The lecture ends, and this last test begins.
You will not soon pass, and I will not fail.
Stare Decisis. Lex Talionis.