The Prophet

The dazzling blue flashes stab to the back of my brain with swords sharper than steel, the "ker-chicks" and "ca-chuffs" filling the void around me as I stand patiently waiting the camera to do the spiffy three-sixty swirl that the director loves so much and the lights to come on behind me, silhouetting my figure and making it seem as if I'm some sort of angel sent to berate you for your crimes against God.  But I lost my wings long ago in a hideous battle with myself (there were machetes and chainsaws), and now I stand center-stage to unwelcome applause and unmerited attention wondering, pardonnez mon français, exactly what the fuck I'm supposed to make of it all.  Somewhere out there a woman hikes up her skirt a little too high, and a man holds up his fist and shouts that the revolution is here while the bloated stick-limbed children clamber out of their dung huts, their spindly fingers grasping for food that only Santa Claus can bring and Donner and Blitzen died in a tragic sleigh accident so there goes that hope.  But here I am, alone, fully clothed and utterly uninteresting, hoping that if I try real hard I can sink into the polished woodwork of the stage and pretend that it was meant for someone else all along.