Reading the Sunday comics

Here we are again,
the Catalan Autumn
when Madrid bulls in.

What is it about peace
on an October Sunday, is it
that peace is so boring
that the excitement
of a brawl takes over?

Is it for the frank adrenalin

rush, that meth-head
bang and the firing of rifles
dusty as old propaganda
instead of a reasonably noisy
coffee-jazzed debate without
truncheons, only

words and spittle
and nobody dies?

In a country of Thoreaus
disobeying with civility
quoting Dr. King & Gandhi
who wins the Sunday papers?



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