familiarity * 3/28/13

Familiarity is a isolationist’s prison.

We, each separately, are its prisoners,

captive in the irons of our expectations,

dressed down is our repetitious behavior.

We are the self-consciousness

as our own wardens,

as we leave endless trails

of our own admissible evidence.

We, the silence

of unceasing self incrimination,

are the bad habits of crime dogs,

caged but none the wiser.

We are the doers of deeds

that are the action-masks

of a deeper guilt.

We, internally, are always on trial.

We are easily the recitations

of never ending injustices.

We are the strategists

for self-inflicted punishment,   

yet always feeling guarded. 

We are presumptively preoccupied

with premise and position,  

and with no freedom of the heart.

Alertness appeals

to our energy reserves,

to be supportive to the cause,

while stress basically steals whenever

and all that it subversively can.

Our morality is a barbed wired

mother figure closely watching.

She is made to be placative, 

yet paradoxically bound up.

We are all within the fall shadows

of original sin.

Our suffering is a storyable effort

at the relevance of consequences.

The retentive mind is a snitch.

Only the irrationally justified    

mischievously beg for forgiveness.

All our meals,    

no matter how lavish, 

can eventually be

familiarity's slop on the tray.

Choice is a thought filled sting operation.

Repetition is the imprisonment,

practiced into unconsciousness. 

Personal rebellion is an afterthought,

once the cuffs of consensual contexts

are already on.

Personality is as familiarity’s defense.

It is a posterized composite

of compromise seeking acknowledgment.

Selfish and selfless

are in the same prison yard.

The Tao of familiarity

would be time spent in solitary,

candidly introspective.

Self, as the parole board,     

is falsely contentious.

Headlines and verdicts live on

as whisperings in the mind.

All that is permission

lives to satisfy accusation.

Familiarity is the evidence storage room,

yet there is free admittance.

Even the now, this very now,   

is only seen

as an unexcused accomplice . . .