Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Tuesday, March 8, 2011

(MANIFESTO OF THE PARTY OF DEAD LABOR OF AMERIKKKA)

THIS GOES OUT TO: ALL THOSE DOGS TIED TO WAGONS FILLED WITH RAIN…

Sky is red
And there world's on fire
And the corn is taller than me
The dog is tied
To a wagon of rain
And the road is as wet as the sea
And sometimes the music from a dance
Will carry across the plains
And the places that I'm dreaming of
Do they dream only of me?
There are places where they never sleep
And the circus never ends
So I will take the Marley Bone Coach
And whistle down the wind…

-TOM WAITS

We, The Dead Labor Party of Amerikkka are similar to how I viewed the supposed Marxism of my teenage years: an attempt, a stick stuck in the mud of decaying civilized so-called nations. Now we are drowning. We are the myth of Sisyphus or Atlas. Our labor is like those dogs tied to wagons of rain. Our leashes tighten, the world is drowned, but no mythical ark saves the fucking place. But there must be somewhere to go, to travel to that place, place we have lost, realistic time(s) we know nothing of. Do we imagine such a universe? Or is it just beneath our toenails, a revolution in service of the marvelous, and the everyday at the same time… Do you just have to break the leash off, pull up, looking beneath the dingy carpet of their dying world to see the dirt beneath yr feet and on and on to a whole ‘nother existence. Let their world drown (in its sorrow and isolation), bury it beneath the rain we were once tied to…

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