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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
Comments on this entry are closed.
Snicker, snicker snicker.
A thing of beauty.
Mercy.
Around 2005 or so, San Francisco became too expensive for the professional agitators, street loonies, and lower-income trustafarians. Ever since then, they’ve been migrating to the City of Roses.
Do not watch this whilst drinking coffee.
Do not ask me how I know this.
Dumbass antifarce don’t know enough to stay down after being hit by a truck.
Portland is this close to anarchy and then the StateAbsolute moves. Police will shoot whomever they feel needs shooting. GOPe voters can expect door to door round ups of guns (not all – just enough to percolate the fear),
Eastern Oregonians will be lawless, which is actually in the event a good thing.