The problem with the mind
It turns life into failure
What you didn't excise.
It turns life into failure
What you didn't excise.
All the heroes are assholes,
Every gesture offends
Lived life outside the box.
The violence we welcome
Who have no motive to be violent
Would have one hauled to a farm.
Yet it stirs him up, the little man,
This materialization of dream,
From slaves and judicious editing.
The invisible creators know
How fine the line
Between hero idolizing and killing
So there's no entry possible
At any time, to where the thing
Actually came from.
All it's good for's to throw away
The pleasures of the present,
Turned obligation, then neglect
As one follows the drama
From end to end, the spin
Of every fun house gun
For a hoped-for sort of mirror
Instead of how banally evil
Humans can become
How futile is
Their existence.
That's what's redeems
Wasting your life away,
To never quite leap
Into someone else.
They are always too ugly
In the end, too far away,
Too fictional to immortalize
And one must make peace
With the illusion
Of their own life.
Of their own life.
That's the only kindness
They can give to God,
Walk as God, as inner parent,
Who we flatter until
We are empowered
By hearing "yes"
And nothing outside it.
The only time there is
At this point says to turn
The other cheek,
Shift your perspective,
Look the other way,
Like Frank Lloyd Wright turned
When Scottsdale became a road
Forever from the southerly direction.
