False Prophets

I’m in a haze before the short drone of my electric insect tells me I’ve got a message from somewhere. I take a look. I assume a familiar position: three fingers down the left side and my thumb slips in between, propping the communicator open and opening myself for the connection.
It’s the Internet speaking: a courier in code, straight to me from somewhere electronic. The message says I got a message. Suspense within suspense. Who, O tiny deliverer, do you come from? What secret, story, strife or star, and wherefrom?

Interlude: I got friends like waves on rocks and yin and yang, and you can see us touch but you know there’s no connection. I got friends like gloryholes, we find cracks in the walls to meet where we can. I got friends like smoke in the room, twisting and curling with the air until there’s no difference and I breathe ’em in all together.

The Internet insists at me. I open. Tap tap click and it’s some damn old wave on a rock. Well, says I, I was looking for smoke. But long as you’re around and the air is clean, I’ll pound a few times and we can pretend we’re something solid. It won’t be fun but something like it.

Now there’s two people kissing in the room and neither one is me, but this guy could be me if I tried a little more or less. I wonder if they’re gonna be happy together but I doubt there’ll be a sequel. Sometimes you just got to hope for the best.

Am I cooler than I used to be but less happy? Am I happier now that I’m not so damn happy all the time? I guess it’s just easier being optimistic when your symbols are a little more relevant. On the other hand, cynics always look cooler when they smoke. And they get all the women. Well I guess I ain’t that cynical, looking at it that way.

The world gets a little better every day but only if you’re high enough up to see it all, and wouldn’t you know it I live in a damn valley


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