AVANT SOUL

The Crocodile's Bereavement

(A Call to Spring Cleaning)

There's always an unpleasant explosion
There's always an uncompleted task
There's always some mad muslim assassin
In palaces imploded to rubble and trash

They say all terrorists are the same
They say all bombers are ruinous
Yet everyone I know is buried in papers,
Everyone's conscience slathered in detritus & chatter,
Smothered in details, drowning in cute, tiny matters,
Then what's the use for the fame of suicide bombers, when —

Piles of papers and boxes and clatter,
Airwaves of sirens, broadcasts of sitcom's & blather
Tedious pig-hearted politicians who seek to grow fatter —
Fill slippery lard hours with the slick grease of Mad Hatter's:

            Such is the fame of suicide bombers
            When we allow minutia to pilot our planes,
            Motoring, chortling, hoarding and gloating
            Tediously speeding lifestyles of self-comfort and gain.

Begin now by your decorated living rooms,
By the piles of clutter by your beds,
By endless unsorted boxes of the hours,
By your failure to sanctify bright, soulless bread.

                  Moan for the injustice of fanatics,
                  Sob for unfairness of innocence blasted,
                  Yet still your papers are stacked to the rafters
                  Until it takes death to realize what matters:

            It isn't terrorists or assassins
            Isn't the shrapnel exploding
            Isn't sharpened swords —
            It isn't lovely words imploding —

When daily we walk through portals of minutia,
Take similar paths, slip through evasive doors,
Daily our understanding walks the same shaky scaffolding,
Struggling to support the parquet, linoleum,
      or polished hardwood floors —
God forbid we sacrifice personal comforts
In an environment littered with mining wastes & trash,
The forests deforested, the ground sucked for oil
By a succubus administration which manipulates mass markets
      and wages war as a blast.
                              What a blast. What a gas~!

You ask me to face core principles
You ask me about procrastination unmasked
You rationalize about the meaning of true friendships
And where's your uncompleted task? —

Ev'ryone I know is smothered in detail
Ev'ryone I know is smothering flames.
Ev'ryone I know is holy mothering papers
Sweet Jesus, what use is the fame of suicide bombers
When you allow minutia to shroud personal gain?

      Have a latté and weep in your mug
      Have a cappuccino and artfully shrug
      Have a cocktail and giggle at the moon
      Have a Diet Coke and don't forget – your Botox party is soon.

What wrinkles? You're stunning! And what an enchanting dress.
                        
Cry for the moment that pierces this instant,
Storm the barricades of the moment which takes in this breath,
Seize the moment that wrenches your heartache,
Fail not to break through at last.

Soak your tears in the hypocrisy of caring
Soak your fears and give them a bath —
Soak your discomfort in the lifeblood of sharing —
And vow to conquer your mess of the past.

Instead of moaning of bombers / and assassins / and terrorists,
Clear the rubble and fallout of continuous comforts
      and merriment. Have you taken that heart
            on your sleeve to the dry cleaners?
                  To remove the stains of awakening conscience
                                    and the crocodile's bereavement?

There's always a holy place made unholy,
Always a leader whose brains are guacamole —
And no matter how bruised is your sharing awareness,
You've always a riddle for the ask.
It's time to stop asking the questions.

      Time to cease settling the unsettlements.

            Past time to halt shell games of political nut heads,
                  End time to befriend the shattering of glass.

      What friends fiddle on the roof while Rome burns,
      or have canapés and fresh wheat grass in their video rooms?

There's always a "superior asshole" with
                inferior political suggestions —
Yet, have you taken your own elimination to task?

You claim personal answers arise from the insolvable,
When your personal wreckage lays holed-up, and waiting,
      and trapped and blockading and simply charading
       at your personal Church of Self-Justified Nativity —

            The natives are restless. Your rationalizations lamentable.

                  The enemies within.

                        Your repeated actions

                         made deliberately unconscious,

                               by repetitions made reckless

                                    Again and again
                                          and again.

Preach about suicide bombers
Lecture about bigots who thrash
Pound your chest with righteous indignation
Pontificate about cruelty not taken to task —

Begin now by your soles in your living rooms,
By defeated piles of clutter by your beds,
By endless unsorted boxes of the hours,
By your failure to sanctify the bread.

Raze the clutter that permeates your thought-stream,
Clear the decks which keeps wind from your masts,
Shut out crazies that distract your true purpose,
Fail not to break through at last.
Fail not to break through at last.

            Fail not, lest the clutter
                        and your groans,
                         and your mutters

                                     be just talk

                                                ...and more talk...
                                                      
                                                 and just that.

My God! In the name of God,
       we need to stop killing
            in the name of God.

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