Tonight I will stand in a room, telling a bunch of idealistic students how to rinse the tear gas from their large doe eyes when it's time. I'll teach them triage techniques, but I don't want to discuss the probable winner in a collision between a machine and a human being.. besides, i'd probably say that physics never did account for the wooden clog held in the man's hand, anyway.
if only throwing a sabot could actually break the Riotman's rabid desire to dominate from behind the helm of the gears. or perhaps he'd hear out my pleas, if only to spare these kids?
i'm afraid that notion is vain. in reality, those huge masked officers and me regard eachother across an ocean that's a meter wide but a generation deep: we're so violently committed to our respective refrains that we will never know reason, only rage. and so the doe eyes will cry and the policeman will get his pavlovian high as the rib of a young revolutionary cracks beneath his Federally-shod feet.
and our angry tide will persist for at least a little while under the teargas skies, marching on one vile figurehead or another till they fire again: and doe eyes will cry, whether they win or retreat. rinse. repeat.
