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The shaggy prophet scrambles up his pine soapbox
with purpose of penitence direct in words, begging
the Christmas crowd to open their glassy eyeballs
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;away from the dance and clamor of control
sweeping the light away from every human instinct.

"Liberty is not a gift! It must be seized at all costs!"
Frothing literacy punctuates with clippings in hand
as proof definitive of the machine running rouge
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;toward ultimate networking within the grid,
as their mainframes read every ripple of movement

in the data stream of life to map modes of behavior,
gauging each putter of gullibility in hope of blind
regurgitation, letting the sheep guide themselves
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ahead to the slaughterhouse, fulfilling their
destiny as succulent morsels of mutton for the feast.

The kid from the bookstore watches the raconteur
for twenty full minutes before welling up a ball of
rage within his cheek, propelling the wad in a stab
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;behind the throng of disbelievers, jaws all
slung in gapes while clutching packages and kids.

I stand motionless in the glow of a flashing string
of lights draped around a twenty-foot Santa made
with love in China as the mob tears into the man
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;above them perched upon his vista of life,
until the ebb of comfort dulls their eyes once more.

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