Posted 1 year ago on Nov. 16, 2011, 5:29 p.m. EST by juliseth
This content is user submitted and not an official statement
For César Abraham Vallejo Mendoza
The trained stars are neighing down through cones. There, the glistening teeth-mark on bubblegums they spit. At night the sky is quietly elastic, and why screams travel slowly, yet farther. Unadded, unsubtracted,
this world always contains or. In the meantime the police drags a nurse out of Zuccotti Park, breaks the make-shift libraries. This is non-violent, nothing happens when you slay books, the media feels.
Lost in the outrage of winter the city memorizes trees in terms of their corners. And depending on context cone (in a different language) means an angle, a corner, or who.
99 percent of times things are absurdly simple to comprehend. Empire invents countless hands who shelve increasingly larger and smaller containers, night and day. Mouthwash quantities of milk,
truck-size bullets, wallets made from human hair, glassy squares encasing the entire universe.
And the police take sleeping bags, photos, pressure cookers.Police wants to siphon out the warmth from each shoulder.
That was Arab Spring & this is American Winter.
I can almost feel a policeman fire a tazer in the air, out of non-violent mirth. Through an uncanny amount of minerals the night exhales a loose mechanized coma. What are we to say?
Take away words, & note, almost nothing remains. Worlds will crumble from a simple touch. When the moon will sail in fifth gear, Emperor, please believe us, you can't repress this, this time.
Remember, Nomina De Huesos.
Emperor, here are several ways of saying that age old triplet Death, Love, Living: Long Peculiar Swords, Broken Plucked Flesh, Salted Blue Water, Armed Non-Violent Men, Nothing Will Stifle.