Reading ASAP’s Fables. Waiting eagerly for the words of the Profit. Deflated condoms and shared needles left on the shore after political high tide retreats. You’re waiting for the ones we were supposed to be. Or maybe we’ve found the enema, and he is us. We is it. But it can’t happen here. Keeping hope alive is not the same as designing it in America and then having it manufactured in China by the scarred hands of Mao’s great, great, great grandchildren. Clowns in the streets twist ballooned puppets into cybertooth tigers. Capital dreams of a 24-hour market cycle. A trading day that never ends. And why should it? Symbols take on lives of their own. Making money by making money. Today you are skilled labor. Paid. Tomorrow your job is gone. Nothing is different about you. Except that you are worth less. Less than zero. Exchange value as denomination in excelsis. Your lips are moving but the only thing I hear is the roar of the digital highway muffled by a soft laptop fan.

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