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Nick Turse © 2003

 

 
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I canít write you my thoughts right here,
Between the CIA, the DIA and TIA,
I canít put them in my journal either,
I canít broadcast them or keep them,
So I set them free,
I pen them in various autonomous zones:
moving busses, between cars on the subway, in the basements of abandoned buildings,
I write them on secret places that only fellow travelers know where to look,
On the inside of used gum wrappers,
on the back page of a used new york Times magazine in sharpie © ink,
On money that they wonít dare destroy (though they should)
And then I leave them for you to find,
You see my messages every so often,
Lying on the seat of the cab, or tucked in some forgotten library shelf
They say things like
And even
Sooo scandalous that we could advocate such things, like food, housing, and health;
You hoard them and hold them,
You distribute them,
And burn them when theyíre on to us,
Hip capitalists package them and sell them,
We donít,
we give them to the people,
as our gift of love.
Find my message.

   
   
   

 

 
   
         

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