If only some disaster would strike
then perhaps we might have reason
to speak to each other.

"Grab my hand!"
"Don't touch the lava!"
"Shove the chair between its jaws!"

But as it is we sit,
sheep like,
except the sheep at least
complain bleatingly.

The man beside me
might hold the secrets
of eternity.

The pregnant woman might
give birth to
the savior of our age.

The old man might
be lonely
and have no one to
leave his millions to.

But the only sound is the muttering
of the air conditioner and
the call of numbers.
Jean-Paul has #191.

I mean,
where are all the crazy people
when you need 'em?

Someone to walk in
and begin to recite Shakespear,
perhaps in Spanglish.

Or a man to exclaim
"The end is near and doom awaits!"
as he brandishes a long staff
carved in the form of a snake?

Or at least someone to sit and mumble dangerously,
that we could look at sideways
out of the corner of our eyes,
for fear that he might ignite,
seize the serpent staff of the doomsayer,
and begin to beat Shakespear
until we pull him off of the poor guy.

Society has become too clean.
Our fears have filled us all
with whitewash that we vomit out
over walls
that should be covered in color.

I think I'll go home,
carve a staff into the form
of a snake,
and learn Spanglish.

But first I need
my license.