We’re the ineffectual upper middle class apologists with no real axe to grind. We’re saying, ‘All for one.’ Or is it, ‘One for all?’ We‘re like a pile of bricks that fell from an impenetrable brick wall. Are we safe here? Or has our loan come due? The action is outside, it’s revolution in slow motion. Holler out your bumper sticker: ‘Elect a clown then expect a circus,’ ‘Visualize whirled peas.’ And we know that won’t make it happen but it’s those little everyday things, they ripple and get bigger. But, you know, we all have needs. Looking out from the high up windows. In climate controlled spaces, we’re pacing to the sounds of the street flying right past the glass: cries of reason sent skyward on the megaphone. They’re calling out on the megaphone with their screams and shouts: ‘Fight fire with fire. An eye for an eye.’ Is this resistance? The house: it burnt down. And the eyes: blind. Are we safe here? Or entombed by our apathy? The action’s outside, it’s revolution in slow motion. New histories are written without ink. The aristocracy is the second percent. Or the twentieth. It’s all the same to the eighty. And barely discernible from the one or one tenth.