The Right Clothes

Wear the right clothes and no one knows
right away how far you've gone
say the right things and enough truth rings
right into left brain making sense rein
down muddy truth but nothing you can sink
your teeth into overnight and better not
to investigate or shed light on what wasn't right
when we've got the left hopeful and everyone dopeful
and momentum chugging downhill fully freighted
a few elated mostly related clans and blood brothers
who's druthers are the free expression of economics
without any ethical or moral constraints
that's the first amendment we bloody well die for
no amends necessary to those harmed their sacrifices
are glorified as the poor boys and girls like lemmings
over the cliffs go to their demise group mind despite
what's in front of our eyes
Someone said conspiracy theory can't be right
they're too stupid to do it right without fucking it up
so then Conspiracy is the word
that lays the turd to bury with the dead
and words are worked like the right clothes to cover
the rotting evil corpses of the military economic corps
that fears no evil, sees no evil, hears no evil
exchanging words to turn life upside down, make heads spin
the other direction in the Northern Hemisphere as they are flushed
with fiction with excellent American and BBC diction
the Western world is so full of itself the buttons are popping
off it's shirts and there's still money to be made and there's still
enough votes bought and paid for to keep nice coats hanging
in the family closet where one nation under God decisions are made
and right to your face they'll tell you
they Will go to any lengths to kill
health care, and kill work programs and education
because the taxes are killing us
don't you know and you don't know what you'll never know
just how out there it has all gotten
that politicians in blue suits and white collars
gave the nod to rough shod reasons to go to war
to look too stupid to be able to speak proper sentences
too incompetent to save 1600 people from a hurricane
all the gray and blue suits getting busy signals
dismal plays of avoidance impossible to imagine
evil could be that intentional, systematic
and that controlled, well dressed, well oiled.

Melted Rubber

Company is coming and the house
needs cleaning for the hostess to be seeming
all intact. She does in fact feel better
when its done and this device is one
that works to move her when one to many
weeks have passed and the miles of piles
have outlasted her will to rise
to the occaission of cleaning and still
she'd distract herself with some other obsession
her wasted time could fill miles or mountains with little
to show for all she did without the pressure
of having guests to bring all the pressure to bear
somewhere to start and then lost in the miles
of piles hours pass in the rediscovered
archives of life, the unfinished,
the way laid till there is time
or presence of mind to tackle that task
that note, that filing, that bill paying
that sorting of images, that review,
that research, that phone call, that thought
it is a time of reckoning
no shoulds, no coulds, the time now is of will
or won't it goes in the kill pile
or the do it now or next pile and after awhile
there's a need for food and coffee
and a trip to the store for preparing
the meal to be shared and returning home
a little late to be starting the meal and still
needing to vacuum and clean away the last
of the clutter which takes precedence over
prepping the decadence and half way through
the vacuuming the fringe on the rug gets caught
in the twisting spinning brush and there's
that nauseating smell that she knows all to well
means the last belt in the house has broken
the vacuum has spoken - forget it -
who were you really kidding anyway?
But progress was made this day
with the miles of piles and now
to the cooking and the emptying
of all the concerns and hassles
to make room for smiles and the reception
of guests and so the meal is in motion
and the house smells savory for the first time
in recent history and evening approaches
the warm light not highlighting the unvacuumed
after all...thank goodness it broke when it did
to break the chain of obsessing on the endless
self-centeredness of not good enough
of the multi-generational compensation
of old shame resolved, redirected
and repackaged by way of cleaning
at the expense of being available to be
human and just simply among friends.

The Things They Carried

Mind draws blank hours
before therapy anxiety towers
giant walls between facts and feelings
talking of things unanticipated reeling
in lives and lines of history, herstory
where does it all come from this allegory
carried 24/7 unbeknownst to thine own eye
Secrets carried, secrets promised
till the day they die expressed
as blown out knees, ruptured discs, fatty liver
busy lives, busy minds, self-neglecting awesome giver
guilt says you don't deserve any better
denial says you can't remember why your guilt was sent
Its just been that way forever - forever.

In meditation open throat she cries
it springs from some unknown place,
no lies no knowledge of it
and no catching the throat
not making it stop
the way she usually does won't
hurt a thing, really
its scary at first and then a marvel
to behold and the same with shows of tenderness
she'll travel to the place of emptiness
that fills with acute longing
or when the native drum beats while singing
tears interrupt her strong voice keening smoothly
till all that is carried is handed over soothed
by vibration cleansing and clearing never nearing
knowing for sure if what is carried there
is hers or theirs or if the witnesses too
are bearing each drum beat airs all knowing
carrying each heart another mile beyond burden
till all singing brings on dancing
feet moving all transforming
all that was carried shape shifts
to spirit feasting on slights and griefs
till only ecstasy and communion carries each
to the great beyond again.