My soul a bubble gum stuck underneath a table, left to drain from its saliva,
rock hard to be scalpeled by janitors, with nothing but memories of the beat-
niks, two years ago on this day when we went and made ourselves counted
with everyone having a celebration though maybe not for the same cause, not
for the same reason, leaving reason and getting high on emotions, on smug-
gled hope bought from the black market, how we thought we could matter,
until the matter of fact caught up with us, with just a memory of spitting
adrenaline, and slogans of truth/freedom/nationalunity, screamed from the
top of Marlboro blackened lungs, with throats now sore and needing Strep-
sils, with heads about to blow needing bullets, with now 42% admitting they
would use arms, brothers in arms though back then, March 14 with good-
willed people trying to, nevermind what they tried to, until it had follow-up
committee, which orchestrated its highjack, which made it a bureaucratic
process, an organized prostitution ring with its own madams and black books
and secretive wealthy clients and Beiruti bombshells, leaving us with the bill,
like that advertising agency that does not bill you for your prostitutes, but
someone ought to pay, ought to pay for the last supper bill, we were Jesuses
stuck on earth for forty days washing dishes in that Jewish inn, making up for
an unpaid dinner for thirteen, there are no free lunches, we had none, we just
had subcommittees with stamps and red tape, with phosphoric tape of police
line do not cross, free wills have been hit and run here.