Facebook Anarchist

It is the third day of February and one month and two days after I finished reading Crime and Punishment for the second time;

Cocytus is unfrozen (for now) although I don’t live nearly as close to it anymore and more earthworms appear everyday at 3 PM sharply.

I saunter with a heretic’s pride over the Bristol common, once a graveyard now a playground, to the store for batteries, my pre-amp has died and perhaps some Doritos for when I am more willing to be fat and alone and I think of a winter without amphetamine powders and a curriculum without Schopenhauer’s terrifying ghost and love’s existence in the post-structural world and Sebastian, the mead-hall landlord whose reign of terror is an Anglo-Saxon curse upon us all but whose Sicilian name gives him leverage in our neighborhood despite the fact that he won’t mix more than three types of liquor in his dirty glasses.

Ah, the flagpole is creaking incessantly but waning and the gazebo looks like new, just glazed with sky, and the birds are brown the majority of the time and we are not all guilty yet so there can be no democracy nor no despotism, merely a purgatory where we vote based on polling data mined from schools that reject more people than heaven and groom the ones who grow to rule our republican geldings delegating for the wind not to make the beach an ugly thing or the soul of the GDP and the NASDAQ index but I suppose no one is making a distinction anymore.

The foetid hydrogen of our teenage reveries flows boldly where no man has gone before into the old miasmas and ring-tone orgasms, the perfect bindings for an Allen’s night, which you are having whether or not you want to G. I. Joe…why are there not more WAL*Mart firebombings?

You shamelessly bit the apple, you snake, you fear monger, you blind bee queening your way through the winter doldrum. WAKE UP!

As a young and questioning courtesan covered in the dusts of valley summers and the smells of Providence Kennedy Plaza’s 60 bus, watching the best minds of anti-generations, these RISD Hipsters who don’t accept my French bread or my rosary beads (but they will always be there) much like their neon headbands and iPods as the sun fumbles beneath Mt. Hope with the ecstasy that we have come to expect from the cruel blurry madam of our starry harem.