A Fine Mess

To the greater context Men are asleep, and do not know.
To that greater context men can waken, but know it not.
Until we come to know "our life itself", connotes a flow
of which, we're all a part, all hopes and dreams are doomed to rot.

The real and only 'ME', lives in the instant, not the memory.
What most think of as 'me', is largely negative and fraught
with anxious thoughts. That stuff lives in a secret bag, fact free.
Composed of selfies shot to show how good and right we are, the lot

of them serve as a dodge. When challenged for who takes the blame,
we haul the album out, then point at someone else. To never own
a blemish or a fault, while fingering a culprit is the game
all phonies play. To stay this way, you'll never play alone.

You say, "I don't believe that I'm mechanical, in mind and heart."
If someone throws a turd at you, and hits you in the head
would you not pound skull until his mama cries? HIS Autism's off the chart,
and like that mean machine you are, you act like an inbred.

It is quite hard to hear a barb about oneself without
a twitch or two. But then what happens next, will make or break
your leg. We have a Right, not to be negative about
any thing friggin' under the sun. This is where to wake

oneself. This is where our precious energies become
fodder for the False One's dread 'turn love to shit" machine.

Enacting puny revenge, wastes a chance to upgrade from the bums
we are. If nothing ever changes, how can we ever wean

ourselves from going back to sleep. There is no elbow room,
within the head, and that's by no mistake. To keep us caught
up tight, the less things change, the easier for Ego to resume
its endless robbery of our energies. For years and years we've bought

the 'out-world' as primal and 'inworld' as nothing more than noise.
Turns out that worshipping an idol stone, or wretch up on a cross,
is just a racket witch-men ply to fleece droll fools. The joys
of Being, ingeniusly obtained by rightly parsing conscious gold from dross,

are why we're here. To make mundane a sacred place, takes all
attention and focus. To extricate the negative,
and learn that twist of thought that slows one's chaos to a crawl,
is coded in our Spirit's BIOS, and wholly why we live.

Mortality itself, Webster says, "the state of being subject to death."
'Morbid penitential religiosity', reinforces guilt.
Incapable of being culpable, until our final breath,
our native Holy Spirit waits, until a Conscious bridge get's built,

that We may embrace true Grace, beyond the reach of Ego's Beast.
Instatic reunion creates a payday for certain causes,
and will be spent establishing a new direction East,
and steer the mind to taste a cosmic force that Never pauses.