Suppose you've a right to a firing squad of your peers. Walk out into the harsh sunlight, a glint bright as lamp glare off a sheet of rag bond. Step forth with the defiant gait of an unrepentant P-O-W. No bars hold you, no cage contains your savage imagination now.
   Stride towards the ink-stained wall, white washed clay, same as the others in the courtyard of this villa, a once-proud hacienda, before the revolution. You almost gasp "strike up the mariachi band." Yet mirth escapes you.
   The span is pocked by former reputations on the rise, ravaged, met by a brutal demise. Already you hear weapons drawn, the ballpoint click, hum of word processor, dry scrape of the truly portentous; fountain pen nib against page.
   No Zorro swoops down from tiled rooftops to swing you into the saddle of a high rearing black stallion before he whirls and swishes a swordpoint Z across Sgt. Garcia's abundant backside.
   Brace yourself for what's next, the shouted commands: ready, aim, critique. Say you won't take it lying down. But when it comes, the first volley, the steady onslaught, a drizzle that pierces you everywhere you live, a portion inside crumples to the hard soil, withers and blows away, a tumbleweed, a defeated soul compelled towards the light.

Read poetry by GA Scheinoha  on Poet Express