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In Spokane Washington all the kids gather round the urinal that says, "JFK pissed here," and they agree that it would make a good idea for an emo song: "JFK pissed here and my girlfriend left me and it feels like JFK pissed on me." And they take turns pissing in the urinal and feeling a physical connection with American history swimming upstream into their urethras, experiencing firsthand the tidal change in public and political opinion with each drop of liquid converted to one month of time, their genitals feeling the thrill of diluting the pure excretory residue of our ex-President with the profane urine of children. The boys take aim and sweep the porcelain clean; the girls straddle the cusp and let fly. "I've always wondered what this would feel like," they say.
 

Tonight I want to kiss someone, touching my lips to theirs like a lab rat delicately suckling the metal tip of a water bottle. I want to corrupt the youth of Spokane, Washington with kisses; I want to be the basis of a thousand emo songs, earnest and urgent and dripping with untested medicine. The sweat of summer mingles with spit dripping from lovesick mouths to fall in public urinals and trickles down to the democratic utopia which is the sewer, where the juices of rich and poor, black and white, male and female all taste the same. Tonight the steam rises up from the sewers through the sewer grates to soak the nubile bodies of the children like oracular vapors enveloping a Delphian priest.
 

Tonight I want to bring a hammer to Circuit City and walk down the row of electronics and smash the screens of all the TV sets, the glass falling in fortifications upon the spackled tile. Tonight I want to strip naked and roll in the wreckage of the cathode ray tubes; I want to fuck the youth of Spokane Washington in the pile of broken glass and let the resulting blood mix with the spit and sweat and cum and pussy juice and piss to form a sacrament I can drink; I want to run my fingers over the scarified skin of this demographic to find the future, and in the midst of this orgy of oracularity, I will be thinking of JFK.