Like the wordsmith fresh out of metal forced to forge weapons out of raw emotions, the mayor of our city will transmute passion into progress.
They'll set up shop among the locals of the city cloaked in the shadows of Uncle Sam's raggedy old suit. Fear of windswept silent hurricanes blown out of them by Satan's eternal oxcarts speeding past. Solemn intention steps off at every stop in far too much of a rush from point A to point B- to notice the complementary inspirational wisdom pasted on the walls. Standing preoccupied with gagged ears chained to pockets, they can't hear the symphony of idle chatter proposing yesterday's solutions to tomorrow's problems.
Because there's grown boys going camping in McPhearson square. Fishing for like absent minds, they pass the time smoking a full pack of second-hand hope.
They are our inspiration. Not by words printed, scribbled or screamed, but by the untitled compositions of dreams. We are the inaugural generation of post-social America, and we hear them loud and clear.
Sworn in not on hand books or holy scrolls, but the mushy brown peel of good ideas whose time has come. We make do with what we have.There is no Writer's Inc. for dreamers.
At least, not while the faceless shapes on the city planner's sketchpad can't be explained.
But we have the solution. We have the answer to the protesters, the advocates, the community organizers, and the entrepreneurs. We have a proposal and it goes like this:
Occupy schools. Occupy college. Occupy the institution and change it from within. Occupy textbooks, baseball games and basketball brackets. The armchair activists won't know what hit them when the fastball strikes — education and service work. They work long hours with so much productivity you'll remember why it's called "work". It works.
Yes, we see the future, and I will remember.