It's back and forth now to the same sounds. Gunshot. The race has begun. My smart money's on the fastest imitator. The kids: they make the scene go 'round. But, the kids: they have the say on who's in and who's out. No different than a dandelion. All the hip shows are played on wildgrass. The kids pop up like weeds. The kids grow into cotton seeds. Cotton as in the names dropping. The wind takes them to the ears that are glued to the street. Glued to the beat. It sticks and won't be shaken until they smash themselves into the ground, and pound that heart onto the sleeve. Because that's what the scene's about.
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© 1998 Daniel L. Cote
tillius@aol.com
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