The Law was the compounded changing
judgment; he the law-abiding
judge, a multi-layered cafe
pastry man, with a mind
full of cafe mumbles,
a thick paste of past
between his layers, almost liquid,
seeping continuously,
between prim coffee sips,
through half-baked barriers
of querulous cogitation.

His problem was that he wanted to BE
his cake and EAT it too,
and also to stand outside, admiring its colors,
the delicacy of feathered flakes, to
marvel at the miracle of
mixture that birthed it;
and to taste it, especially,
best flavors from most treasured,
deepest profound layers. But,
because sour parts gave indigestion, and
hidden stones fallen into the initial mix,
cracked teeth, and scraped
tender-proud gums, and
too much sugar on the surface
ice,
caused wincing embarrassment—
because of these, it was hard
to savor the good
for fear of the bad.

So he resolved to be . . .
a criminal,
to weave inside and outside of
association's Law, bending the
ephemeral flow, of judgment, of
sometimes slow, other times
quick jerks and twitches
of mental machinations.
And he would go backwards sometimes too,
or forwards if it suited him, drifting,
but not foundering, playing along,
but not necessarily by the rules.
And he did not play to win;
he didn't have to, being a
clever Crook,
who understood the
rule of the Law
which,
in the fine print,
(in-between
 intricate layers),
arbitrarily states
that there is, in fact,
nothing
but the Law.

And therefore, also, there
shall be and is no weeping One,
who really falls
(who falls?) through the
treacherous cracks, into obscurity,
like a contemptible Crumb
pushed off the cake onto the table,
then flicked onto the filthy floor
by the Merciless Finger.
And no One Crumb may soar
up the hierarchical ranks of the
wedding cake, to live in
perfect union
at the top,
standing victoriously betwixt
a static,
forever smiling,
mystic marriage.
No,
there is only the
wholly wedded gift,
the movement
of the Law.