Oh No, Here He Goes Again

It would be easier to dehumanize them, to helplessly or passively retaliate, silent in a small dank hovel of incapacity, aloft in views but unresponsive, to say how robotic, how stupid or naive, or how vulnerable, weak-minded they are. To mindlessly follow the leader. But they are smart, real, incredibly human beneath stars, black cloth, almost decipherable characters, entirely human. Prone to genuinely offer great kindness and capable of immense horror. A swift turn of the wheel, changing lanes without notice. They are just like you and I, but bigger, straighter, bold, gilded, bronzed, with broad shoulders. Podium - heightened and inspired by the crowd. One. The ideal, what draws every person to ask for a meatball sub and the others to openly offer. But did we fabricate this need? Is it a real gift? Is it really what he needs if a man asks for something and you give him something else? Oh no, here he goes again, a teal-green reflection of a ballpoint pen. His high leather boots walk over dust, through clouds of smoke, bravely, but more and more apparently confused, still an image of what you need, a projection of who you wish you were. He's on the t.v. and on the radio. He's inescapable. You could spend all passing of the hands of a clock learning through these media or you could read one book and be done with it. But we want the image, the moving image, the person to interact with, to yell at. His rotogravure, ein Rad grinding into cobblestone streets, making grooves. These grooves surpass those of a vinyl record and are not erasable by magnetism. Solid, unmoving, no moving parts. Ground into ground, shaped our own shape. We all want to be that way, to have an impact. At any cost? No, no, no, that couldn't be me. I'm different, stronger, smarter. Here he goes again, a neverending reel of footage. Only this time I ought'nt be so surprised.