before he was a poet

before he was a poet,

he was a judge

bearing a tiny cross on both sides of his face.

in front of a jury of peers,

his robes were black,

like his laughter

and his screams.

knives and guns and anger

were always in the courtroom,

presenting facts.

each case he tried

came to haunt him

when the moon was in the sky.

he heard the ticking of clocks,

and his heart racing for the next bus,

always arriving too late,

and he wore down his teeth with tension

before a dentist could make any adjustments.

so 

he left the law 

before the ground

completely disappeared beneath his feet,

before he was sentenced to life,

before his premature death.

and his poetry became all surface and angled innuendo:

he wrote in bare feet,

with headphones covering both ears,

pretending he was 

In the Hall of the Mountain King

with Grieg,

hugging himself between notes.