There's no tribunal. There's no judicial review. There's no judge advocate to mediate, moderate, mend the West Side rumble dancing on plastic nuggets of surrendered gold. All inside your head. Thoughts like battering rams. Emotions in a synaptic schmazz of fists and dropkicks in the squared skull warmed by woolly hats and threadbare hopes. There's no arbitrator to bring a concord of a Zen mind embattled with itself. No. Your thoughts are your own, like a hot summer riot. Your thoughts are your jailer, jammed together in cells of terror, of hurt, of war. Hand to hand combat like mud marines on a blood orange beach. March!! Left, right. Over hemisphere's of the swollen brain. Land mines: north, south. Hemisphere's of God's earth, starving and bellies turning, convulsing, in spasmodic gasps of quiet love in empty sorrow. Is this the one. He, the half-robed judge who arrests your thoughts burning like planks of fire in rusty barrels in cold November air. Flammable and inflammable. Smoke and billows of grey and blue. Jesters in sleek shark skin suits and cheap pilgrim shoes. Go! Fill the jails of your mind! Overcrowded thoughts in switch blade cells. Brain stunned, underdeveloped. Judge half-robed in laughing sneer to call back the angry poets of your pain. Wounded in stiletto handcuffs of verses made bad. Society's fault. Your fault. Heartless and bleeding heart sing on and on and on: grand schmazz under kleig lights and smoky memories in unsaleable dollars of purple prose and watered brain. Go forward, attorney of hopeless case. A verdict awaits. Alcatraz of the mind. Leavenworth of the soul.