Friday, May 15, 2015

An agent from that Samsara routine of old


I saw you crossing the street, comrade,
But you knew it was too late.
I put my hand on your shoulder,
And  we pretend that everything is brotherly love,
Worthy nostalgia,
Not the truth,
Better than the truth!

But these are the necessary fibs
That separate our current gut-over-the-belt selves
From those lean selves,
Those nasty selves,
Those earlier versions of us
That moved through life like a pair of human-sized razor blades,
Cutting through every sacred bond of law, compassion, mercy.

I smile
Because as we lie to each other
I know you got my past
And you know I got your past
all marked down, graded, assessed, ready to use against you, use against me,
 Moment's notice.


I'm that bastard,
but you're that bastard, too!
From out of the past
Who's coming to drag you back to the Wendy's salad bar,
the coin-op arcade,
the small steel room full up with the whimpering entreaties
of broken, righteous people,
leaned on so hard
'til they believe what we believe,

kicking in doors, smashing in windows,
lighting fires where we shouldn't.
You know:
the bad good old days.
Nothing that glorious
Could possibly be good for you, right?

How 'bout all those phone conversations that we weren't supposed to hear,
Even though that's what we were tasked with by the machine upstairs?
How much silliness did we glean
From all those people's emails?

And that throwback arcade gamepad at-a-distance obliteration SHMUP game?
Only played with real ordnance, real neighborhoods, real time?
Killer, comrade, truly godlike killer!
I press this button,
House on the HD monitor transforms into smoking crater.
Call me Zeus,
Call me Slick,
Call me when the check clears.

How 'bout
the tiny steel room with the three bare fluorescent cylinders;
that stretch from midnight to 8:55am
with too many cigarettes, too much hard liquor,
every knuckle shattered one too many times,
a whole lotta people with the wrong ideals disappeared,

inquisitor's nausea
giving way to sense of duty
only returning in high-cryptic dream messages,
too many faces tread upon,
too much loyalty to a cause.

And what lies do you tell to get over on the normal people come morning?
Answer: All of 'em!
Deliver 'em up
Wrapped in a flag,
Excused by relevant bodies of secret law,
Thumpin' a stack of Bibles with another guy's severed fist,
If you must,
Just don't admit to a goddamn thing.
Don't even issue one of those non-denial denial type of deals.

Seriously, comrade:
This is the only truth I'll ever tell you:
Put a stake in me
Before I strike again,
Triggering another round of this tedious, macho Samsara wheel.
-April-May 2015
Text/Scribbles/Photography by William D. Tucker 

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