Unhealed Pain
Each day
they are there moving through town
the People of the Ideal Org
There are so few in that big building on the Avenue
Walking slowly down the street, eyes invariably downcast
or staring blankly, as if no one is home
or theirs souls are not with them
maybe they have already been transported to another dimension
Holding their lunch soft lunch containers and purses
walking to their Ideal Org from the Metro stop
its the same every day, this small skeleton crew
That slow march of obedience
Falling in line to the cadence of the Wild Sailor of old
From my perspective they seem devoid of independent thought
Something seems to have been sucked from them
Shuffle-marching slower than the rest of their sidewalk companions
As if they are running on one-half power
the life in them seems out of focus.
Most seem devoid of smiles
But some have a permanent smirk
as if they know a joke we can never comprehend
Or an unspeakable secret they are prohibited from uttering
It is too cosmically profound for us earthlings
They stand at the corner of Colorado and Raymond
attempting half-hearted smiles and handing out
their free personality test postcards
that promise a life free from psychiatry
the healer of multitudes
yet their self proclaimed Satan
or maybe its just competition for income
Those same cards litter the floor of the parking structure
minutes later, tossed aside by the other sidewalk people who were
only being polite
They look like Bartender School patrons in their
uniforms of matching conformity and bad fashion
They seem lower to the earth, like something is weighing them down
Why did they join?
Why are they here?
What is the point of this? Eternal life on another planet with aliens?
Maybe its some deep unhealed pain from their past
Just like the Old Happy Sailor himself
So perhaps they are broken
Just like the rest of us
Except they have uniforms that point it out.
