Tuesday, December 13, 2005
The Idea
You had an idea. And the more you thought of it the more excited you became.
You tested your idea, stretching it over the rack of your brain, and it remained whole.
You informed your friends, who were shocked at your transcending them. And then so respectful, you asked them
please to lighten up.
You must give a speech! they insist. And though shy, you
do eventually soldier though one.
When you finish, a huge wave of applause laps the auditorium.
You’re mobbed afterwards by some who say they had the same idea but lacked your skill in saying it, and many others
who feel you’re Savior.
The person who stays till the end asks you to join a crusade based on your idea. “But...we can't regain power unless
we whittle things a bit for now. Once in office, rest assured, we'll employ your idea to fuck our opponents till their ears fly off...
and there'll be a job for you.”
You have a job, though not one in which genius gets recognized.
And though you don’t care for vulgarity, you go along when asked to orate their version of your idea to groups.
Mostly, the groups are well-chosen and roar approval, but once in a while a heckler emerges, screaming Sellout! Hypocrite!
You return to the political individual to express your pain.
"Hypocrisy? Baby! That’s the Golden Mean!”
You had an idea. And the more you thought of it the more excited you became.
You tested your idea, stretching it over the rack of your brain, and it remained whole.
You informed your friends, who were shocked at your transcending them. And then so respectful, you asked them
please to lighten up.
You must give a speech! they insist. And though shy, you
do eventually soldier though one.
When you finish, a huge wave of applause laps the auditorium.
You’re mobbed afterwards by some who say they had the same idea but lacked your skill in saying it, and many others
who feel you’re Savior.
The person who stays till the end asks you to join a crusade based on your idea. “But...we can't regain power unless
we whittle things a bit for now. Once in office, rest assured, we'll employ your idea to fuck our opponents till their ears fly off...
and there'll be a job for you.”
You have a job, though not one in which genius gets recognized.
And though you don’t care for vulgarity, you go along when asked to orate their version of your idea to groups.
Mostly, the groups are well-chosen and roar approval, but once in a while a heckler emerges, screaming Sellout! Hypocrite!
You return to the political individual to express your pain.
"Hypocrisy? Baby! That’s the Golden Mean!”
