A rebel without a clue.

December 7th 1941 is a day that will live in infamy. Walls that are composed from sandstone are eroded in time. No coffee since Tuesday morning. I am very tired. Fair to say I am thinking of nothing to write. I'm battling an addiction I didn't know I had. Perhaps five cups of brewed coffee a day at most. I am tired and could've followed yesterday's golden slumber from 3:30pm until 8:30pm. When most of the nation was preparing to head for home, family and dinner I drifted away. Why building college? There isn't anything to build. The conservatives will put a stop to any public building projects: that leaves private corporate enterprise when all the banks won't lend. I am in a strange paralysis which hopefully a triple espresso can shift? That derrière is marble. The Oreo invasion: we have our own biscuits. Fuck off back to the States! May? Yep the weather says it all: sunny, but often windy and cloudy. Just had a look at ...

What is this bean which demands so much o'er us? Half the planet over is in ruin in barista or plantation growers Or major corporate density method. Where once tea was the madness that we shared Now coffee is the branch of chains Like slaves rowing to a distant land Locked synchronized we spend all alone Maybe in huddles or meeting Where poets and revolutionaries once demanded more.