The Disembodied Hand
The hand that moves across the sterile hours in a ward for
the insane…that wanders over the bare breasts of mad women hungry for a touch
behind locked doors forever locked out the consciousness of those who toil in
broad daylight for a loaf of illogic just so that the fat mouths of children
can go on sucking…
The hand, the hand that is stationary on the defunct clock
indicating ill repair…
The mistakenly purchased hand from a second-hand store
made of plastics fabricated in Hong Kong in the impoverished sector of town for
the Asian immigrants who have not been here that long nor is there a place of
permanence in their hearts…
The hand that is penning this, the tired, effete, worn,
and calloused hand that betrayed a heart that is now becoming as calloused as
the opposition itself that calls for its severance from the body politics that
hand previously fed it…
The hand that is tired of being judged, the abandoned,
locked-away hand, the hand, the disembodied hand that belongs to no one and
belongs to everyone…
The hand, the hand, the hand….
The hand that will finally pick up a weapon, the
disembodied hand that belongs to no one and belongs to everyone… the hand, the
hand, the hand…
koon woon
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