I steal a glimpse out the window. Palm trees. Steel grey sky. I look back at the monitor. I count the windows. 17. A good number. I could live my life with those digits.
My voice is soft. No coffee. No edge. It chirps like an itching laugh. I can't even control the flashing smile. It is connected to the coup.
Most say a smile isn't comparable to a revolution. I know different though. I also know some would agree.
"Our brain is made of million of neuron," my father reminds me. "When this frequency is in tune, all the neuron are activated for to make this smile."
I imagine him saying this. He is the scientist. I am the metaphysicist. I construct formula with pictograms and alphabet. I do not need a burning flag to make a country tremble.
My fist is made of leaves and bark. It was bred to burn by my ancestors.
"Light the way for others to burn," they said.
I am a defiant one though.
"No," I say. "Not burn."
I have seen the scarecrow. He is only straw.
Others may say he is born to be consumed. I do not. I have seen Dorothy click her heels. Home is coming for us all. It is not made of scales or balances. It is only digits. Numbers which we may pass out of fear. 1. 2. 3. 17.
This is how many times I make revolution within 1 hour of my life behind a monitor and a fist that was called to burn. This is American Idol. Simon Cowell on the Hotties List at work. This is all of America waiting for Bucky to make it one more song with Queen and a grin to make us testify.
For it is not how we lose on television. It is what we show while we are busy doing it. 1. 2. 3. 17.
I listen to Queen now. It is night. It doesn't matter what I write. I don't even have to make sense. For some reason it lets itself be and in that being it becomes light and bark and all things nice.
Isn't that nice?
What was I singing? Oh, yes. 1. 2. 3. 17.
1 week ago