No Role Model
She'll have my pardon
Pardon in her apron, oh, Lord
Gonna see the governor
Who said release my man
The witch doctor went mad! The priest murdered a man! The role model had his memory erased by electric shock therapy!
His family insisted on the treatment. His friends seconded it. Both believed he overlooked what mattered. Poor priorities. Disappearing. Fragile attention span given to busty waitresses, psychotic homeless people, delirious daydreams. All proving violent and disruptive to the Heart they knew was in him.
Narcissist. Self serving. Loves himself. Self absorbed. He cares only about what he cares about and nothing he does has ever been able to influence what sits in his heart. Psychopathic tendencies. Refuses to offer a therapist the opportunity to confirm it. No sight outside himself. Only his own reflection: He looks in that mirror. “Their role models are dead. You killed him!” He laughs. “Yes. I killed him!”
Now they no longer have a compass. A sight to set on. He’s thrown them to the wolves in the jungle. Took them there. Grabbed their hands, “trust me.” They did. They do. Even now while stranded in the vines. The leaves crinkle around them. Some shiver with fear and they repel the steadfast, the able bodied... “Can I myself survive while protecting them too?” Before able to land on an answer there’s a growl from the brush. All heads turn to it. All eyes wide open.
He heard the growl from the jungles edges. Distant. The same direction he dropped them. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn around. All he gives is three seconds of focus, a quick thought, “did I leave them well enough trained?” Role model doesn’t care. He’s a cool cat. Going out. Looking for a kitty. Checking every corner of the city. Thank God for the shocks of electricity.
The role model is dead.
They killed him! Good! They have a tigers hunger to focus on now. No pedastal holding up a mortal man. No savior. If the tiger bites down on them, let their last thought be an appreciation of the feline’s passion… admire the strength of his bite. No time to think of the ideas of another. Life is instinctual now. It’s intuitive. It’s survival. We’re no longer in the babies crib. Not held within the soft arms of our mother. There’s not TV to distract us from this reality.
- Winston, Loco Gringo, The Man that Wants To Believe In You.
