fiction or fascism

like when people self isolate and act like they are the only ones that are angry and depressed and so that's like supposed to be a reason or excuse for treating others unfairly. like you are not the only fucking angry one dood; alksdfjlaksdfsadfjalsd

anarchy; practice against all systems/forms of authority, coercion and subordination from interpersonal to societal (including the subordination of the 'worker' to the economy and the division of labor into gendered spheres of public/private);  especially towards the destruction of any centralized political authority (with all the bureaucratic tentacles and uniformity of action that mass representation implies) which time and time again only seeks to cure our symptoms with more management rather than by letting the people be- creative, imaginative and angry.

anarchy; self organization against all systems of hierarchy that seek to capture our spirits and assign privileges to some in order to subordinate others (including social capital);  collective liberation found through autonomy, and voluntary safe(r) participatory spaces by which we can thrive and honestly dialogue about our personal struggles in revolt toward liberation.

how can you tell me treat me accordingly give me identity 

when i cannot even fathom the depths of this lost the deep betrayal of self from expectation

my identity belongs to someone other than me constructed, copied and placed into context

quickly pasted together in a rush to conform to some amerikan dream a theatre of proportions

told me who i was supposed to be cut me up into so many parts i don't even know which parts to share with people anymore

fear stomped onto pavement vulnerability learning to explore the revolt with my self 

and in small moments when the sound isn't muffled i take distance away from the corners of my self i let my self walk around weigh the urge of hopelessness with the draw of willful defiance i let myself feel it i measure my life away from my self i have no identity here just reflex or flexibility

then there are moments shrouded in fervor repressing, depressing

contextualizing the revolt 

there are no words  just air, and breath 

but the scent of revolt  makes the streets taste bitter bottles, more easily breakable and all the flags burn

i don't have an identity here in every moment and shadow presumption is destroyed by sheer force of will broken window glass picked off the passenger seat each bead brighter than the rest you wonder 

FASCISTS?

you wait idly

the mechanisms of the machine hum your hallelujah you drink beer on a bench

you wonder, again

you feel so much that it's almost impossible to begin anywhere at all so you keep form, formation, formulation

you can hear the echoes voices in the dark where'd you go? i miss you so?

all of the mundane things that trap you rage at you  your habits draw you back into the fold 

identity does not 'belong' shaped by none like energy it will be fluid it will live we will breathe