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There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Works a Four-Hour Week. Seeks Promotion. High-Tech Social Media Companies? Feather Beds for Fascists.
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If they don’t believe in freedom of speech that’s fine. But when they try to take if from me I will have the last word: BANG
They are all big fat titty babies.
“Ooooo, I’m just not up to it today.”
“Me, neither. The weight of the world, etc. and so forth.”
“I dropped my all-day sucker on the floor. It (the aforementioned sucker) is ruined. RUINED, I tell you! I am bereft and inconsolable. I must take to my bed.”
Even at my advanced age, I’m pretty sure that I could punch their faces flat. Dish face syndrome.
“Oy, look out! He’s gotta fist!”
Musk either has gonads of machined steel, or he’s dumber than crackers.
I’ll keep this story short. A couple of times I wandered into certain drinking establishments in Seattle, alone. After just a handful of minutes, food and drink in hand, I could feel the hot, evil stares from shadowy corners of the room. Meeting those eyes with mine, the message came to me unspoken but plain: this establishment is for Marxists, asshole. If you stay a minute longer than necessary, you may not survive to the door.
Sounds of knives sharpening.
Lock and Load. Go back. Appointment discussion of Marxist values.
Ha ha. That makes me think of Chuck Norris in the U District. I’m no Chuck Norris.
Some day I’ll tell my story of The Elbow Room. No commies there, and it’s almost Russia.
I don’t understand why anyone wants to have anything to do with that trash.
Like you brown commie bastards can like, get fucked like. And like, good riddance to like all of you.
Where commie as fuck? No shit!