Green Grass

On the microphone, broadcasting our voices and angers over the too-limited reach of the airwaves, we feel like infinite entities. In between the pristinely whitewashed walls of the institution-school and the suppression of pockmarked ceiling-tiles, caught up in the constant eroding waves of people-- after all that, we are the voices of the disenfranchised masses. Body after body, sweeping past in a tide of non-response, they don't hear us; we are heard by those who want something to hear, who search out that ever-elusive more that there may be out there.

When we take seats in our badly-upholstered, moth-eaten, and time-worn thrones, we feel revolutionary. We feel as though the patchwork we are in, and the labyrinth where we should be are just two illusions: two anti-realities that we have made up in our nightmares. This is closer to the 'real' I have always imagined. This hands-in-pockets, slouching-too-much, walking-too-fast reality, shuffling up the hand-me-down street, after spilling our minds' products into salvaged electronic interpreters. We are the unseen kings of the shantytown, broadcasting our speeches and decrees to self-deafened ears; all we want is to pierce the barrier of ignorance.

So we try, and that is enough for now.