Menagerie

Looking outside at all those shiny little piggies, piggies in their cars, piggies on their scooters, piggies in twos, piggies in threes, piggies chasing you, piggies hunting me. Piggies in their pig skin gloves in the little pig cars with their rubber and their mettle, their leather and their braces, their handcuffs and their fat pink piggy faces. Piggies alone nervously stalking. Piggies on the phone confidently talking. Piggies and their pig-snitches. Piggies and their tame whores and bitches. Piggies on the street. Piggies in the cars. Piggies on the motorcycles. None of it matters, until it matters more than anything at all.

Piggies complaining about the courts. Piggies releasing someone they caught. Piggies going boop up the street playing with their sirens. Piggies on Russian Hill and the Embarcadero, but no Piggies in the ‘Loin. Cowardly little piggies playing at dirty harry, scared little piggies, see them put their foot down and hurry through the parts of town that they wish they could rule and underhand, leave to the dealers, the tent dwellers and the cracked out chasers. 3am Piggies running their sirens. 2pm piggies chowing down on donuts and pig-ribs, while the city bleeds itself to death outside macdonalds and popeyes. Piggies don’t care for people much at all, unless they are the right kind of people in the right part of town. Fuck the piggies, one two three. Fuck the piggies and they might set ya free. Fuck the piggies and they might forget your indiscretions. Fuck the piggies and we might all go to heaven.

Look at those cuddle bears walking down the street, Gerald sweeps Julian right off his cute little feet. Piggies go by, crackhead on the fly, shouts at the boys, the heroes of the hour. Gerald doesn’t care and passes Julian a flower. I hope they are strapped, I hope they are packing. I hope they are willing to put a bullet in his noggin. Piggies fly by, onto greener fields. Piggies fly by thinking of the meth cookers and their bigger yields. Narcan and suboxone. Methadone in coke-town. I hear talk of ethically sourced cocaine, lambs to the slaughter, coke has no ethics, coke has no morality, coke has an engine that runs on commotion. Commotion in the coca fields, commotion in the cartels. Commotion in the tattooed faces declaring lucky 13. Commotion in the abattoirs of the streets of Los Angeles and Eugene. The lambs are munching down avocados and coca hcl, talking about how they buy ethically and don’t fund someone else’s hell, while the greedy little crack-chickens chase down another rock. It all comes out of the same bag, no matter how much money yer got.

I think I am slipping. I think I am sliding. I think I am turning into an animal for the hiding. I think I am slipping. I know I am sliding. Penguin footed careless, leave the boys to their egg carrying, flapping flightless, snapping at the menagerie, all the way to the water. Iceberg floating. Cold water diving. Fine fish carrying. The world is black and white to me. Piggies and lambs. Chickens and bears. I can’t see their faces. I don’t think I even care. Snap the straps around my beak, no need to clip my wings. I forgotten how to speak.

Piggy called Woody rings on the phone. We set him free, let him take his home. We didn’t take his licence, the court didn’t take his wheels. The peckerhead is fussing and fuming. “you didn’t pour it down his gullet.” dont’ you be sorry little penguin, waddling and wading in a mess of his own making. Piggy wants to talk. Piggy walks that walk. Piggy little piggy want to know my name. Piggy little piggy is all about the shame. Nothing I can do. Nothing I can say, except at least we are all animals, it is the monster on his knees who’s kneeling down to pray.