Tearful Amongst the Zombies

The shaggy prophet scrambles up his pine soapbox with purpose of penitence direct in words, begging the Christmas crowd to open their glassy eyeballs      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      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      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      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      above them perched upon his vista of life, until the ebb of comfort dulls their eyes once more.