In May 1968 nearly all of us red-bloodied patriots had never heard or
seen or knew a real live admitted Marxist, with full black beard and
longish hair, intense eyes, speaking quietly to a group of students
sitting on a university floor, having just joined a sit-in and
awaited directions from a trio of hirsutes who called for a meeting
to hear what was planned against the university, against capitalism,
against sexism, against racism, against whites like us slaves being
trained to oppress the masses as our fore-people had been doing since
... forever.
The Marxist paused, said I have to sneeze, excuse me, sneezed
explosively, several stunned rows deep took the sprayed snot as if
being annointed by god's own truthteller (most were religious more
less, none political). Then the sermon qua lecture qua fire and
brimstone continued, sermons qua lectures qua fires and brimstons we
knew were what we designated slaves sat quietly through parental
dinner tables or temples of worship, waiting to be rescued by a bell
or a benediction or a prayerful amen, the basket already passed with
small change and small bills and large judging glares of the besuited
basket masters.
Three hours of steady ungodly Marxism exigesis continued, maybe it
was 4 or 8, we lost track, napped, massaged our numb butts, nearly
everyone smoked *back then*, some MJ handed around, of course *back
then* nobody had a cell phone to escape the droning narcosis so we
just took our brain-starved medicine of exotic ideology lubricated
with dollops of nose-haired mucus.
It was liberating *back then* to become diseased with revolutionary
mental protheses to increase out gait, our reach, our influence (well
before influencing became rancid capitalism), our fuck you to
authority, to obedience, to toeing the line, to climbing the ladder,
to dispensers of claptrap Western Traditionalism.
But above all, Fuck the Draft. Mark Rudd laughingly marching through
BedStuy yodeling Ho, ho, Ho Chi Minh, Viet Cong Are Gonna Win. Burn
our draft cards, dump blood on Stock Exchange floor, Make Love Not War.
Then Kent State, then Weatherpeople blowing themselves up. Then
hirsute Marxists became barbered professors, shady lawyers, corrupt
politicians, market riggers, abusive mates, liars, cheaters,
informers, deserters, fleers to Canada, even bone spurs dodgers.
So here we are, the ursine Bone Spur Dodgers mauling the perfidious
Capitol of global capitalism, Marxism become cruel capitalistic
ideology of Russia and China and North Korea and Cuba and unknown
regimes across the planet while keeping quiet about what prepared
youngsters for becoming slave masters of intellect and education and
wealth accumulating high tech.
*Back then* how could we have known what shit were getting into, were
going to spread, have enjoyed the fruits of, willingly continue to
dress it as Shinola. That's you we mean, not us.
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