Blinded By Perpetual Neediness

The genesis: — “Bush On The Couch” by Dr. Justin A. Frank

It’s your station in life commanding fear or respect

a quality forged by bridges built or wrecked

to aid the weak or succor the powerful

it’s a mantle earned by who you call and cull

 

Being so broken, drink or dominion offer no fix

the holes and flaws become your dominatrix

the higher you go harming on a grander scale

the naked light of failure a darker shade of pale

 

Scuttlin’ from reality, gripping your demon shield

blissful sadism and omnipotence to wickedly wield

tethered to a megalomania writ oh so divine

fostering a callousness of the impervious kind

 

Running and hiding when it was your turn

keeping the VC out of downtown Galveston

as commander, you tell who to kick ass

but in your time to serve, you took a pass

 

An entire life riddled and riven by grievous need

drunk or sober bathing in moral bankruptcy

the U.S. presidency so way out of your league

or a brush cowboy Al-Qaeda-failure-to-heed

 

3,000 people perished in infernos today

code red intel spikes spelling a fray

yet tragedy’s lesson ends with this call

you’ll just need to head out to the mall

 

Because it doesn’t matter what or how

winning the moment, your sacred cow

in your empty suit which you so belong

just bang a gong, getting your war on

 

Chaney and the rest spun you like a top

with a wink and a nod to a virtueless sop

them knowing just what to do and say

GeorgieT got asked to come out and play

 

Sending soldiers off to your madeup war

sexing up the terms, stacking the score

bodies come back, maimed or boxed

your crocodile tears smudging the cost

 

Jesus ain’t served by your lies and war

or trying incessantly to top Daddy’s score

never saying sorry ’cause nobody else mattered

the dead decomposing, their being splattered

 

Just go with the gut, light on the fact

to hell with looking forward and back

no need for analysis and surely no debate

that’s work and carries too heavy a freight

 

New Orleans drowns in water and wind

while who’s pickin’ a guitar, flashing a grin

What was predicted sadly came to pass

“Heckuva job Brownie” is what’s heard last

 

Tryin’ now to counterfeit what is history

judgment lapses for all to feel and see

truth as mangled as your brand of compassion

making selfless good something to ration

 

Dylan, yes, he was spot on back in 1965

telling us with a wink and his loquacious jive

it don’t take a weatherman to make the deduction

GWB, yes, he’s a weapon of mass destruction

 

(written in 2011)

The Musical Saviour

Maria birthed herself a baby named Jesús

José was pissed, “he don’t resemble me”

an outlier was the blue-eyed, blond hair tyke

“I’m so much more than my looks,” he said

yes,  Jesús was on it early.

 

“Mamá and papá, I’ve been anointed to think big”

José rolled his eyes, Maria just smiled

“I’m bound for glory beyond these sands of Sonora”

“I am willed to start a mariachi jazz band”

“we’ll charge nothing and fill the plazas with the future”

“I heard a messiah complex is spreading rapidly,” said José tongue in cheek

“so be careful, you know there’s no vaccine as yet”

“don’t you upset the cartel,” warned Maria. “Pilato is extremely protective of his gold, myrrh and frankincense trade”

“is your plan to live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse,” deadpanned José

“No,” said Jesús, “But my licks will last forever”

 

José and Maria tried everything — conversion therapy, military school, a vegan diet, even heavy doses of amplified Lawrence Welk music

however, Jesús was not to be sorted out

you believed in him, or not — he didn’t need to reciprocate

a calling is a march forward, no slowing, sidestepping, or deadliest of all, explaining

 

in succeeding years, Jesús’ trumpet licks sharpened and his lyrics enlightened

however, naysayers still taunted, “hey snowflake, can’t you find a halo that fits?”

but fans and a few groupies mostly stayed loyal especially sold on the wine and fish produced before the concerts

“we are sound to the deaf, sight for the blind, food for the soul” was the band’s mantra

yes, Jesús and Los Discípulos (Juan, Pedro and Pablo) were vested

 

“selling what people can’t buy is the worst of all business plan” snorted José, “hire a consultant”

“I’m a not for profit prophet,” answered Jesús

periodically,  Jesús also misspoke

‘time heals all wounds’ sometimes came out as ‘time wounds all heels’

in his late 20s, Jesús developed a tick of sorts, visibly shuddering whenever anyone in his company exclaimed, “nailed it”

even the best doctors could not reach a diagnosis, much less a cure

one wizened, elderly physician called for an invasive history-ectomy

“we must remove that part of his brain foretelling coming events”

but nothing happened since Jesús could never meet his deductable

 

soon the federales began taking a harder look at Jesús

his riffs badgered for liberation versus the status quo

he and his ragtag crew expanded to an international following

his lore galloped past that of even Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata

then, avant-garde Jesús suddenly disappeared

the musical revolutionist joined the many thousands, especially the students, women and campesinos, who vanished forever, the desaparecidos who were never to be seen again, be it due to government or cartel forces actions, or, as some say inexplicable predestination

 

A few natives swore Jesús returned shortly afterwards, as a proprietor of a nondescript bath house specifically designed for washing feet just outside of Juarez

as such, the holy infidel mocked authorities with one last act

he charged nothing

try bastardizing that gospel.

The Past, the Present and The Future

Introduction:

Not final thoughts, call them edible words

written hard in mind and put away wet


Evil is, yes, the world’s purest desire

and humans will never break from its twining

it’s a backwater oozing enchanting siren songs

laden with devil hybrids and soul strip mining

 

Long before this nation’s so-called founding

chains were placed heavy across human hearts

call it the original-est of mankind’s sins

the scars on the Blacks in order to tell them apart

 

Death freighters sailed across the dark seas

Lower in the water, burdened with heavy hate

the ticket-less cargoes bound for King Cotton

timeless auction blocks still the South’s soulmate

 

Label them holy shrines or places of the damned

hellholes of Wallace, Maddox, Connor and that filth

the reality is there’s a new generation always bidding

the latest now nattily dressed in suits and ties of silk

 

Oh, come one, come all to the public lynch

it’s a swing and sway of the three-fifths faction

for when it’s a state’s right to maim and then kill

you cannot emancipate solely with a proclamation

 

Call it an alignment with the status quo gospel

brewed and marinated in feral and fetid DNA

always remember, ‘it’s Mr. James Crow to you boy’

for the genocidal will never stop seeking prey

 

Yes, human giants climbed many of the mountaintops

alerting and and warning about fires of five alarm

challenging the plaintive ‘we’ve always done it this way’

battling malignant foes laden with a love to harm

 

But this ill extends far beyond the southern seceders

to constituents professing kinship with the Golden Rule

but when human innocence is profanely slain

the thirst of all is quenched by the vilest of cesspools

 

Have black lives ever really mattered?

only in the futures market of the enslaved

angels yes, but among us there are no better devils

much history is home sweet home for the depraved

Interpretation

Side One: infiltrating the mindset, of the evangelical/Tea Party political movement

While waiting out faithfully for Jesus to return
we’re conveniently ignoring his being foreign born
because we know dark and dirty ain’t going set us free
the preachers have promised us that could never be

Now our Lord doesn’t believe in government taxes
but some swear of his emailing and sending faxes
we know he righteously did heal and then tout
“I’m a miracle worker, all because I lack doubt”

That crap about his rolling with harlots and whores
it’s a campaign of hate by poseurs and bores
from those Beezlebub purveyors of the 666 code
come Judgment Day they’ll burn and explode

Crowds will swarm the bonfire, making it most large
reveling in the special appearance by Madame DeFarge
but for heaven’s sake ’cause there’s no good reason
Lord, please make it a-f-t-e-r the football season

Flip Side: A stream of consciousness

The Fox folks at their extra best idiot savantin’
while the radio fatboy spouts pure Oxycontin
they’re all parading around like virgin whores
who long ago played the quit card in keeping score

Yes, the drawing and quartering of commonsense
a perimeter of ignorance led by the willfully dense
declining sharpening tools for their dullest of minds
continuing to belly up to the buffet where haters dine

As war is now a status quo component of modern life
with huckster marketers waving the profitable flag of strife
as bodies appear double-stacked in the old tombstone corral
more enemies are created to boost our slipsliding morale

Now some are saying corporations are just like people
and they can’t wait for the Sunday sermon prequel
causing the hounds of whoredom to eagerly bay anew
as our religious speakeasies divest of the Golden Rule

The dirty little secret not taught in our purest of schools
challenging conventional wisdom – no that wouldn’t do
it’s ‘apostate heretics’ fighting to change the ties that binded
but was it Gailleo or the Church oh so woefully blinded?

Late Brother MLK brimming full of sacrifice and desire
sparking the kindling, setting off the holiest of fires
yes the powerful must eventually stand solitary nude
despite the rush to clothe them by the apologetic lewd

yessiree, of thee I do sing of the need for a USA spring

O Say Can You See It’s All About Me, Me, Me

narcissimI’m a rainmaker, just pissing all over yours and you
a money whore galore, hey that’s just how I roll
A gentleman farmer, growing a bumper cash crop
I’m at the top, ain’t gonna drop, with no plans to stop

I fix matters fortuitously fruitful
betting on despair is just part of the plan
looting coffers and avoiding all blame
Barons of robbery know no professional shame

Impunity, immunity, it’s about the I’s and no U’s
whatever I desire is going to be mine, mine, mine
go big and go large and go deep and go long
I can’t go wrong ’cause there are no words to that song

You call me the rapaciously evil devil of the vault
label me a dollar bill Caligula or a close derivative
I live so fine for simply making figures align
I’m a financial whiz, there’s no her or his, just mine

War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning

With all  due credit to Christopher Hedges and his beacon of honesty.

I was sent off to war
to settle a petty score
’cause the pols said
we want those bastards dead

They were once our friends
but that all now depends
on doing our private bidding
or else — no f-ing kidding

Shipped over to the sand
then marching overland
trying not to misstep
a basic danger we must accept

Some look forward to the kill
taking human life as a thrill
but it’s different you see
when you’re sitting in D.C.

Splattered with guts and blood
whether of an enemy or close bud
changes you deep inside
a pain some can’t abide

The desert she bleaches you
hallowed through and through
I just wanted to do some good
like most everyone would

After three lengthy tours
I’m not the same anymore
I did my best with pride
but it’s in a shell I now reside

Jen’s settled for what she’s got
the kids scared what war has wrought
tears and terror map out me
I’m tryin’ like hell so none can see

Now I don’t dare explore
what’s left of my brittle core
the mirror says it’s me there
shut down in my lonesome lair

So blare the trumpet solitary
and invoke the patriot fairy
my most ominous of fears
is that “Taps” I’ll never hear

I was being all that I was
charging forward just because
now my soul is never more
in case the Pentagon is keeping score

Yes, I’m still somewhat alive
maybe cursed to have survived
but I gave my life too
for it’s not the me I once knew

We’ll Think for You

Plying misogyny with his favorite, simony
was Pope Gregory’s corporate policy
those married priests, what a bugger to solve
starving wives and children just damage collateral

A hatred for vaginas, either minor and adult
protecting penises like a phallic-worshipping cult
a sweet spot for power and mass subjugation
collective disdain for over half of creation

Just like on earth as it is in so-called heaven
Pope powered genocide billed as killing without sin
Blood spilled, lives lost, all for imperial control
while the holy city lies in residence within us all

Ah, the devils do-ers in Avignon and Rome
selling title and salvation with hearts of stone
pardons for sale, heaven’s entrance for a price
and that’s only if the hierarchy wants to play nice

Shakedowns dressed up in finery and glory
while dispensing ‘our Fathers’ and hailing Marys
the abuse of children begets damage limitation
orbiting away from any fathomable spiritual direction

Off with the Cathars and the Anabaptists
woe to Hildegard especially but all heretics
the treatment of reason as a treason, ideas as threats
you’re with us or against us, place your bets

Galileo, the heretic, he should think the same
yet it’s rapacious priests shielded from shame
between being bastards and producing ’em as kin
deserving of placement in the apocalyptic dustbin

Try canonizing respect in a real life moment of zen
Silence the tongues preaching most Orwellian
It’s long past time for all to walk the Damascus Road
A living adherence to love’s labors’ found lost code

A Marx Upon Both Your Houses

The money beast is a mighty lure
alter of capitalist piety pure
it smudges the canvas, blurs the lens
ravages the sacred, eschewing amends
the allure of apples proffered by slithering serpents
becomes sanctity bartered, simple dollars and cents
the dismissal of history, the disposal of heirlooms
fueled by cavalier edict from circumspect-less boardrooms
the moneychanger temples draped in white wings of worship
boasting Trojan Horse services dispensing human catnip
the cohesive threads of community unraveling towards nil
bigger, faster, greater–an appetite never filled
blinded to the blunder in a black widow’s embrace
the mighty engine roars on making all places any place