Breathe…

Late one night… the Dadaist held an impromptu gathering… they are Dadaist after all,
and they all were there… Yes, all of them.

The air was cool within the blue haze of Winston’s, and the reek of thick Russian coffee
touching pink lips acted as a narcotic reflection on ceiling fans turning counter too the right.
The Dadaist where manifesting their manifestoes of French reasoning. Words falling upon
the barren landscape of poverty made simple.

I hummed quietly a “Sigur Ros” melody knowing that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson are
the North and South poles of our revolution for these states united.

Breathe…

I was happy to see so many people free of the Jesus powder… free in the zone of their humanity
and out of the plastic arts of control… control… control. Churches would make great art galleries.

I could feel the “Viva la Vida” pulsing their primitive behavior. My God, they were saying “NO” after all.

Freedom… Freedom… Yes. Gradualism is over and the protest is now about resistance.

~LA RAZA~

Breathe…

The Christian oligarchs created this mess in the first place. Where the law is more important
than the people the law is too serve. Even milk goes sour in a cool refrigerator. I have seen this
first hand, second hand… hands held by hands with pointless fingers.
Rev. Brown… I’m glad your church is dead… another pointless finger with mind-numbing
consequence closed. Christian baby-makers my ass… You are not the only one who can smell fear…
it’s not trespassing when you cross your own boundaries.

Breathe…

Humanities expression can not be held back… Never.

The Dadaist chanted… “NO”… No more painters, no more photographers, no more models,
no more designers, no more dancers, no more writers, no more musicians, no more sculptors,
no more religions, no more business, no more money, no more republicans, no more democrats,
no more police, no more armies, no more nations, no more propaganda, no more of these idiocies…
no more… no more… We lost interest in you slaughterhouses.

Breathe…

NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING… nothingness moved as a vapor wrapped into the everythingness
as I started to draw a stick man through this thoughtstream on a crumbled tan napkin.
I removed my shoes and stretched out my manifestoes… ahhhh… FREEDOM.

Thank Emma Goldman and my family of anarchists for giving you the 8 hour work day,
and for the black night that has just check-mated your white king. Friends, the game is over.

The new black is beautiful in fisted hide… toooooooo the streets my brothers.

Breathe…

Yes to Adams, Yes to Jefferson for these states united… and Steve Jobs is dead. Very dead.

The cup that holds my moonless Russian coffee was just refilled…
and I’m about to kick you goose-stepping nationalist between the legs.

Long Live King George the 6^th…

Breathe.

Find me in the silence of a candle… for I am there.

Defy Mediocrity