With crooked lips, "Give me your French IMF Casanovas, your penny-paid labor,
Your huddled asses yearning to teethe for free
Upon the wretched of our teeming shore
Send these, the vampiric, the Villa dwelt, billions-cost
I lift a'kindled Declarations t'wards the bolted door!
At best, Zuccottii Park is a mournful powerwashed mausoleum for liberty's last brood of democrateers. It's emptied spaces are now, at worst, a blight on Lady Liberty's already crinkled and blemished countenance.
Sad, man. Feels bad. I feel nauseous conjecturing any more on O.W.S., though. Why are we eulogizing?
Taibbi dropped some righteous hammers. Ann Coulter wouldn't care if the 12th SS Panzer Division watered it's horses in Washington Square Park. Mudslinging isn't going to help anyone, though.
Instead of rhapsodizing on democracy and American't...I recall a particular afternoon.
Our Rhetoric 1 class on the first spasms of media attention on OWS had wrapped up. The protesters in the NYT cover spreads were kids. They looked familiar, like...my friends. Like me. My identity felt summoned, this thing was broadcasting on a special frequency. Our frequency. No longer was I walking astride a mighty leviathan, suckling a coffee and more or less being leash-led hither and tither...naaaaaaah man. We were part of something. Together.
I hope that time comes back.
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