What is This Life? What's He Mean?

What is this life, I ask you, if not constant crowd control?
You start off in a hospital, and end up in a hole.
You’re marched from school to school, sent forth, and then from job to job,
And drive a bloody caravan like every other slob.

That tea with Alfred Prufrock sadly failed to change your mind,
Only reinforcing views that you’re the Walter Mitty kind.
Though Big Brother is impassive, as you try to slip away,
The White Bubble may well catch you, as you swim across the bay.

“I’m a man, and not a number!” is a noble sentiment,
But if nobody is listening, then it’s breath that’s poorly spent.
So you stand in line and worry that your passport may be lost;
No escape and no identity – existence has a cost.

“Would you like a new PIN number, and a unique username?
Very sorry, but your documents were all put to the flame!
But we dearly crave your custom, and will gladly come to call,
To confirm you’re not a brick in our almighty business wall.”

Yes, we’re all part of the tribe, and must do what we can to cope,
Or else seek a bleak oblivion, with a necklace made of rope.
There’s more meaning if we seek it, Reader, don’t mistake my theme,
I am actually an optimist; salvation is my dream!

A Thousand Journeys of a Single Step

When you need more time to think, or
You think, and then you drink;
When you hit the ‘berg and sink –
Walk on … walk on.

Walk on water, soothing soles;
Walk on waves that break on shoals.
Walk up Golgotha, with blisters and all;
As you carry your Cross, and you suffer a Fall.

Roads to Emmaus, Damascus and Home;
You can fake the centurion, march into Rome.
From a meaningless shuffle, break into a sprint –
Though the sun’s in your eyes, you’ll run fast if you squint.

When depression hurts belief,
When your choices end in grief,
When the rainbow time’s too brief:
Walk on… Walk on.

Belonging

I am a Merican,
And – here’s the rub - Ritish,
Plus a touch of Ilipino.
Don’t laugh ! Rench,
With the odd Utch.
From a younger age, Erman,
And a little bit Alian.

Much blood has been spilt in these names.
Seemingly endless, fatal games.
Nationalism killing almost as many as ‘Belief’.
Good intentions ending inevitably in grief.

National Socialism.
National Front.
Chiang’s Nationalists.
Hunter, hunted… hunt.

These days I wave my flag of convenience
As I sail through the airport.
It’s shaped like Mao’s Little Red Book,
But it’s a deep-blue, American passport.

Haven’t lived there in years.
Customs man sneers before he clears.
Love it or leave it, his eyes seem to say.
It’s him and his kind, why I'm off and away.

But then when I pause, reconsider, take stock,
I have my P near Plymouth Rock.
(That’s P for Place, and not what you think
(of the bodily effluent that leaves a bad stink))

I’ll grow where I’m planted,
Even when trans-Atlantic-ed.