Moth II or Fatal Force 878 and Counting as of 10:45am, EST: Stage Directions for a Play as Short as It Takes Another Officer to Kill a Person (as Short as It Takes Another Jury to Find Itself Unwilling to Find Any Officer Guilty)
(Wake up well rested. Sit in bed. The sun shines bright. It was raining hardest in the dark right before sleep. It isn’t cold. The left side of the back of the head aches for no reason. Rub it. Try to leave it alone. Think of it and feel it become sore. Let the mind wander onto something else just like the day. Somewhere there is a traffic stop. The left side of the back of the head starts to crack open. Out comes a leg. Out comes another. Somewhere a cellphone camera is turned on. Out comes a wing. Somewhere there is some broken taillight. Some small and silent thing goes unrepaired. Out comes another wing. Somewhere someone is asked to step out of the car. Somewhere else someone is standing on the street. Some people just start running. Some never take off their seatbelts. Something else is freeing itself from the skull. And the cellphone camera rolls. And the bodycam films. The notification comes in. Someone is now live. Somewhere a page refreshes itself. Somewhere else some fingers are typing. A head comes out of the head. The whole body of the thing appears brown: an insect. It shakes its wings: a moth. Time has traveled. This was supposed to be another season. Time lies. Time holds up a mirror no one peers into. Time collects dust. Dust is made up of fibers and skin cells and crumbled bodies of small insects, like moths. There is a ladybug watching the whole scene from a corner on the ceiling. The fly, fat and poor in motor function, tumbled out of the window yesterday. No one knows where it went. The spiders moved in secret and took their webs with them. They resemble time. The mind wanders back. The moth is incapable of distraction. It sits on the bed, not flying. It just sits there on top of the blanket fold. It waits. It waits in silence. Somewhere someone is screaming. Somewhere someone says, “Yoooooooooooooooooo.” Somewhere someone says, “CHILL.” Somebody yells, “Please!” Someone else remains silent. There are also wails. The moth is warm in the sun. Its body is confused by the weather. The air is not cool. There is no one to cool it. The moth does not have thumbs. They were shot off. The moth does not have wings. They were shot off. The moth still has a back. It’s riddled with bullets. The moth has a coffin. Its brother paid for it. The moth has a name. It comes up in court. The moth has no justice. There is no justice for moths. The brain wonders if animals have it in them to be fair. The legs stand as the tongue says, “He is having issues.” The heart knows this to be prophecy. The joints know it, too, like feeling rain approaching in the air. Some woman raises her brow at the foolishness it takes to run. One mourns the absence of choice. The lungs hold onto breath as the eyes watch the ticker and the soul prays that the number, like the temperature, has not risen in the time it took to wake and see.)
