They gave me the "tour", still in handcuffs, first up the infamous elevator (in that regard, there's a tale about a guy who instead beat up two St. Paul PD, but with his feet) and then, unscathed but still blinded, through the gauntlet between pens and holding cells on a warm Saturday night, cries of the detainees bemoaning the full moon.
In one cell a stunning young woman stood alone, defiant behind shatterproof glass, rake thin, proud of her screams as beautiful as any captured animal, intensity justified with a smile declaratory and mocking the injuries to my eyes as they met hers like some demand I be handed over to her, that liquid line from cheek to jaw taught, flexing and clenching.
And then at once, the trance broken - I found myself released into the rabble, with no visible organization to it, as if though that must disturb the incarcerated there.
So inured of the nature of anger and its frustration, I offered my own ministrations for calm, to be rejected and restated again without offense or sight, a blind monk among priests and kings in the City of Thieves
... tanuki *
for a few cups of sake
recites the sutras
recidivists crowd the shrine
offering prayers all night long
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