Friday, December 23, 2005

I am the poster-boy of the revolution. I’m the kid whose fourth grade teacher, ten years later, is still singing about him on the radio. Yeah he’s singing about me, and wishing me luck. I am the poster-boy of what’s bound to come any day now. What should come, anyway. See, there are circuses on the television, and they’re not co-, but adhesive. Something sticky for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I am the orphan poster-child, whose parents are too apathetic to make love. All the world needs is a little love, and we’re all it’s got. I stand like a statue for liberty except my patina is formaldehyde, and it’s defective. We’re in trouble, and my parents are too absorbed in themselves to absorb into each other.

I need an underground resistance, and I need to sign a lot of forms to get it moving. Viva la revolución. My partners in crime are sleeping in the back seat. The potholes and worn roads bother them, but not until we’re free-falling off a cliff will they choose to wake up. Instead of panicking they’ll put their hands together, diver-ready-prayer position, and plummet. A perfect 10.00. We won’t make a splash at all. No waves rippling out. No dominoes falling.

I could really use a cigarette. You know that impulse you get when nicotine has never touched your lips. I could really use some peace of mind.