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dollasign 12:08 p.m. 2007-05-12 Scrabbling and crawling and falling these wretched little people casting stones at their livelihood and pretending righteous anger at the intolerance of american society. Decrying dollar bills and lighting fires under nickle and copper to boil down the significance into something less, to make our world a part of the earth, vast and desolate and vicious. On weekends they flock to the parking malls and the movie theatres, buying fashionable clothes to go to the fashionable movies. On weekends, they spill their sweat on their front lawn, toiling under the relentless indifference of that distant sun, trimming and pruning and priming and they always forget the smell of freshly cut grass, and the feeling of lying naked in the sun, or of digging toes into the moist soil of earth that you own. And they worry what their friends think, on the weekends, of their yards and their muscles exposed under transparent shirts. And they forget to wonder what they think of the same. And when the week rolls round they crawl with lazy muscles to their desks and their pickups and wonder at the reasons for working when the work all seems meaningless. And all they feel when they go home is tired. They gaze at their paychecks, devoid of pride, devoid of accomplishment, and think, not of the electricity that has made their lives so bright, but only of the bill they have to pay. They look at the brilliant, hardearned numbers signifying their effort and ability, and think only of punishment. And we wonder where happiness has gone. back & forth |