Dead Presidents

We were stuck watching American Idol. Dividing the fake applause by the real to get our satisfaction quotient. In a collective sigh we all acknowleged Mark Burnett as the anitchrist and ushered in the next set of commercials. Squinting hard to find the shows within it.

If we were wood then we'd be better off. We could splinter. Sneak under people's skin. Infect them with our frail bits of pain. And they'd remember how it feels to be just a small piece of who you were. Plucked out of the same holes you created. Just residue. Evidence. Of which hole we entered. And throough which one we made our exit.

The neat geomoetry that is skin. At any angle it all adds up to same degrees. People layered like lunch meat in a sandwich. Their only purpose to be consumed. The only thing that makes us different is the bread we select. We're all someone else's fuel. Skittish gastanks burping out the miles like drunken parrots. Wondering if they still hear us.

And then we all learned it wasn't Jackson. It was Johnson. And I looked it up just to be certain. Wondering what else we thought we knew.