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Occvpatriot 12/22/2011

Police want to fight. It's a cold, cold night. The people stand up to a jeering cop, "you're breaking my heart", he points to the one he will be arresting when he gets his chance -- posse comitatus. Indefinite detention, it's a time of war. But the war is over just in time for it to really begin. Coordinated attacks, as it all slips back into the sands of time. Another grand defeat, now Iraq is Iran, majority rule, so we gather on a cold, cold night.
We are waiting for the same old new exciting things to happen. A year ago, there was a young man on fire, from the streets of Tunisia, in front of a fruit stand, to a fur store in Portland. It's always the small humiliating moments that makes a person set the sky on fire. In Turkey, they talk about the genocide they happily did to their Armenian beggars during WWI. Kissinger carpet bombed Cambodia thirty years ago, so no wonder there was a Pol Pot. It was the most bombs ever used. Another winter of discontent.

Person of the Year is self-immolation. Person of the Year yells at the crowd, gathered in the cold, cold, dark park, "Why are you always trying to antagonize me?" His manic action, a comrade tries to calm him as he screams, "You can all suck my cock". No pictures will be taken, he will probably use his own head to smash plate glass windows without cause or ideology. So we march without his solidarity. I wonder where they keep the riot tanks. Cold night for a shopping spree, but cops are real angry. Tonight, I support the troops, as long as they are non-violent. Tonight I support the protestors, as long as they are non, non-violent. Sure, I support the police, as long as they light themselves on fire in the town square. People mill about in the cold, cold for Bradley Manning. But until the Police can light themselves on fire, in solidarity with the working class people of the world, they just cannot be trusted. The Police yell at the enemy. The Enemy is the Person of the Year. You're breaking my heart. Points you out, for a little later, it will be zip-tie retribution. The Person of the Year tells the pig he's a retarded bitch fag, and breaks his fucking heart. I think the Person of the Year has a lot of pot in his backpack, it smells like really good shit.

So we protest private prisons for unwanted citizens, private prisons in abandoned strip malls. We keep warm this winter, we make trouble in the Mall. We make grand speeches about indefinite detentions, we talk about the Bay of Pigs to Guantanamo Bay. Outside in the cold the bike swarm versus the yellow jackets. The police get their man. Richard Riot. Radical Richard. He radically resisted arrest. Richard, a class-war soldier, got zip-tied with Amy Goodman at the battle of Saint Paul. He knows the taste of good tear gas. He knows humiliation in little American cages. He knows a police state when he sees one. He knows we will all be charged with assault. When we punch a cops fist with our face. I told a riot cop that I would push back. The streets are rising up. The homeless are revolting.

The dictators are being gutted with pocket knives. The dictators are being humiliated in little holes. It's better to die on a train somewhere in North Korea than to be eaten by the starving working class children. But what a waste of fat. Children fighting dogs for scraps in the world's dustbins. Bring the Troops remains back, throw them in a landfill, the kids could eat that. Next we should cook the technocrats.

Do I look like a proud worker? Or do I look like another junky beggar? A few shoppers stop to listen, find out what their message is. Who are their leaders? What do they want? The leaders are the artists, the photographer, the poet. The leaders are the beggars that say nothing, just quietly work like they always have. The leaders are the people willing to stand in front of the trucks. Willing to lay upon the tracks. Willing to be run down by the train union bulldozers. Then, there will always be the leaders, with the bright voice that tried to co-opt the worker's movement. They are the sycophant that will accept your art, sell it as their own, create online donations. The money will make them traitors. They will be the leaders that make their bank accounts fat and disappear. The workers quietly suffer. There are no trade unions in solidarity with me. Only the beggars without cause or ideology.

wisper 25.Dec.2011 01:35


and on Christmas morning

a person was heard reading this

i knew they were reading this 12/21

for I heard them say

thank you