Assets of Human Beingness

You cockamamie bullcrappers
all sprightly with your demands
and terrifying in your inability
to construct actual sentences
out of the words you've been
taught by the confines
of your society and your
completely overrated
desire to find your television
faces and to fill your pockets
with assets of ill-gotten
or well-gotten retrospection.

You're all the same, you and you and you,
and still you smile and say, "Ho, oh, oh, I'm
so different than that manwomanchild, and I'm
a unique individual, and you cannot, sir, pin me
down in your normal way you do."

You're not different, you're just you, just part of
the cog, part of the wheel that spins this thing
round and round down the decaying halls of time
and sin.

You're an asshole just like the rest of them. You
don't look any different to me because I've learned
to see the inner sanctum of the human condition and
deep down I understand that the human soul is
the same color as swampwater and it smells as foul.

You're a robber and a murder. You're a mother and a father.
You're a soldier and a child, a creampuff and a popcorn ball
a sword and a telephone receiver of calloused rejections.
You're just what you are, and that is terrible.

To the upsandownscentric nature of your mentally obsessed
I say that you have nothing to fear but life itself.