Hey you deception specialists,
with your mixed messages,
keep your hands off my perceptions.
Keep your spin in your pockets , keep your card tricks in the deck.
The way you process words you'd think you were some kind of wunderkind ---the Michael Jordan of slight of hand.
You feed the rumor mill , you're brilliant.
You use your allusions to cause head on collisions
You have a doctorate in poison
But to your well structured argument I'm not buying.
Your references don't pan out, I've checked them.
You'll have to get your rowdies to hold me down if you want me to swallow your poison.
I remember you from recess
Your pants always had creases
You knew just who to please
and whom to put the squeeze on
There's no doubt you had talent
But there was always the smell of a toilet.
Like your typical assassin,
You get a chuckle when your target comes crashing
From behind a blast wall you direct Mexican standoffs,
all options hyper and hopping on the table.
The insane poetry you write for the sound bites,
scares me like the kids are scared by Frankenstein.
You give me a pound of paranoia when what I need is an ounce of empathy.
In your thesaurus, you find words to substitute for Paul Simon's choruses,
and from the trash you pick out Bible verses
And as long as they follow orders,
you hold the hands of the orators who bring tossed miracles to the potlucks you administer.
You're one of the idea people
The idea is to cripple
Anything vaguely clear
you've been trained to make disappear.
Like Houdini on acid
you've got an escape plan.
While the disobedient of the world fry
you remain optimistic
and assure yourself the fallout won't penetrate your fortress,
and will most likely just give you a healthy looking tan, like you just got back from Florida.
True you're an artist,
of the smart ass genre , and proud of it.
The way you bray the doctrine
pays a lot better than plain old talking.
You've proven yourself to be the smartest.
Your smoothness enabling you to sell snow to a Canadian
Most ruthless when it comes to mean decisions that rock enemy infrastructures,
perceived to be deserving, because of something you covet,
some treasure you're in love with.
For you , splattered blood doesn't matter.
It's easily added and abstracted , just like the blood in laboratory vials is turned into digitally collected data.
You say your faith gets you through any anguish that breaks through to your emotions--just feedback from doing your duty.
But your faith is like the incantations of the witches in Macbeth,
but with deceptions better managed
and outcomes even bloodier than what followed medieval curses.
I don't know if you'll ever read this,
but if you do,
with your extensive training in lack-of-shame,
you might get a good laugh
or maybe it'll scare you just a little
or maybe even make you depressed,
and make you question your choice of pharmaceuticals.
All at the expense of one more of the powerless
sitting with a two bit point of view in the picked apart economy section.
By someone still recovering from the shock of finally getting the gist of Stalin's remark about the lack of divisions and it's relationship to policy decisions.
And police actions
And humanitarian interventions
And things that can't be mentioned
except at meetings of the well pensioned.
You don't believe in hell or if you do it's abstract and doesn't hurt all that much.
If you believe in heaven you're pretty certain you're going there for your contribution to the expansion of civilization.
I could read some Aristotle and get some quotes about the soul or something similar,
but of course you have your own conception and are better educated and more articulate and you can exhale numbers with your carbon dioxide that are capable of taking the shape of characters in a kids animated movie.
I hope you don't mind me mentioning it,
but maybe you and I are in different dimensions.
Mine may be defective
Yours is offensive to the nose.
One hundred dollars says you'll go down bitter,
still clinging for the glitter,
even when people are spitting on you,
and never get why Che Guevara preferred permanent paranoia over settling down in suburbia.
Either get a handle on the evil in your DNA
or, I hate to say it , go blow out your brains.
Your local outlet of the military industrial complex
has everything you need to know about what it's like to be dead and gone to the devil.
No one's going to miss the chaos you incant with those queries that make everything dreary for the majority,
and gets everyone riled up carrying spears.
What you leave behind will be despised like all the ugly minds that push to the front of the line.
Of course someone just like you will spin it and eulogize about your dedicated service and your medals.
Raising the hypocrisy level
But that's alright , because there's always a chance it'll all unravel,
and be driven over by a truck hauling gravel,
and of course you'll be a done deal.
