Untitled.

Automated laughter echoes in my ears and sometimes emanates from my mouth. It sounds so recorded, so on cue, that I am shamed by the lack of individuality.

They never give me anything to remember. They never break the rules. They never show me a color that is singular or out of context. I have never had to bow my head in shocked submission.

Where did the revolution go? Into the alcoholic gutters, self-destructively sleeping while the greedy algae eats the stone. There are cracks on every sidewalk.

The revolution is dirtied now, soiled by profit and numb justice. We ran a hot bath, but the child wailed. We brought clean clothes, but the bum slept. We brought hot food, but the stomach had shrunk.

I wait for its caked-red eyes to open and grow clear again. I wait for its atrophied muscles to swell again. I wait for its strange posture to infect my soul again.

I wait with dread. Because on that day, I know I will follow it to hell.