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Parade of Monkeys I've been on the wagon for weeks clean and sober, without an ounce of poetry in me muddled meanings, hazy pretension, wild sideburns, they will not drown today's everyday festivities with misconception. Hundreds of feet below on the movie screen a newsreel proclaims "Local Students Show Spirit!" and out comes the primate procession; dolled up monkeys in make-up and wigs play-act, singing tuneless tunes while flinging feces and masturbating wildly. My bell tower box seat offers the perfect view; and aim. I didn't need to remind myself that this is an interactive documentary; every lion knows it's being filmed when it sticks it to the zebra or eats a rival's young but never does it fail to give it the old Ivy league effort. Still, I cannot help but wince when I make my pet perform its one and only trick and the band leader's face erupts into the beginning of slow, wet, fireworks. The volume's been turned all the way down but I'm pretty sure of the sound the other monkeys make on account of the reactive "oh" on their faces. For all their pomp and pride they can't keep formation amidst the rockets red glare and other theatrics brought to fruition. They are running and screaming, yes but they have always been running and screaming. The director threw up his hands long ago and since then this monkey improv jam session has been in need of a blind force. But I am no hurricane, I am no angel, I am a mother bearing her breast for all the orphan children of the world; letting monkey babes suckle 'till they are full, laying them down to a deep and deserved sleep.
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