dear A.N.S.W.E.R coalition,

you ruined Impact font forever. the apocalypse might happen now. we’re not quite sure what to do next; please advise.

love,
granad(a) collective

mason jars

i. politics does not exist on a store’s shelf. the glass cases should be broken, the lightbulbs in the chandeliers smashed. in darkness, there is only politics.

ii. granad(a) exists in darkness. capital brings the light that snuffs out the stars.

iii. granad(a) is a cigarette burning in a room full of explosive gas.

iv. we used to create our own light by the fireflies. we could light the paths with the lanterns of thousands. we traipsed through the fields singing songs and holding hands. the fireflies are confused and dying. their lanterns are weak. (see: the great bodies! JR, KW)

v. politics does not exist in nostalgia for a pastoral idyllic.

vi. granad(a) exists in the jars of jam that sit in boiling water. it is the jar that exploded in the root cellar, the unsealed jar that molded over winter.

vii. granad(a) can solve the blight that ate the potatoes, the tomatoes, the peppers. it is a victory garden of the soul.

politics is not a granad(a)

what do you do all day? all night?
nothing.
you don’t read?
no. i pretend to
— anaïs nin

i. politics is not a granad(a) and whipped cream is not vegan.

ii. social war is not an excuse for whitefold indulgence.

iii. orgiastic asphyxiation cannot be poured out of a teacup of jameson.

iv. the grammar of militancy still does not allow for brand names and punkredentials.

v. plastic begets plastic. we support territorial pissing on antiquity now that the walled city has been breached.

vi. we’re tired of consuming flavored marxisms. tomorrow we return to selling condoms in san juan.

vii. mask up, motherfuckers. we can hear the kino sirens approaching.

spheniscidae non sus

We should not have any regrets as a movement… there is a new opportunity to build a mass movement against capital and the state. The contradictions are sharpening. Capitalism is becoming a tinderbox. Anarchists must now live up to our ideals. It’s time to set the world on fire. -Where there’s smoke…

they tell us that we should not yet have any regrets. yet we regret that the world we live in is not yet aflame. we are scattered spent Zippos and we are penguins that can not fly anymore. our wings have become flippers and we fear we are fast becoming extinct. we have waddled so far North so as not to hear the cries of the Global South. today, we keep our distance from humans lest they sneeze; lest we catch their apathetic malaise. we bail out banks but not our neighbours, even as we keep a w(e)ary eye on the loan sharks. they say that capitalism is crumbling and that it will be reformed into the new world we always dreamed of. where housing and healthcare and education will be affordable because the State has our backs. we reject reform. capitalism is a leopard seal that will never change its spots, and we can still feel its dorsal knife.

este cuerpo insurgente

y aquí seguimos, nuestros cuerpos chamuscados y chuecos, fuertes y bellos. aquí sigue este cuerpo insurgente, y así sigue la lucha nuestra.

y este cuerpo insurgente se rebela.

quememos las fronteras que nos oprimen. cada pared debe caer por el bien de nuestr@s hij@s y herman@s. toda américa es un pueblo multíplice, es un cuerpo en levantamiento permanente.

mi casa empieza en tierra del fuego y termina en nunavut. este continente insurgente se despierta lentamente, como cuando te levantas por la mañana. y en ojos oscuros nos encotramos las almas, en pieles morenas van nuestros caminos.

cruzan el rio en una llanta vieja. pueden ahogarse pero pasan segur@s. al pisar el otro lado l@ imagin@- desnud@, asustad@, muriendose de frio, mojad@. en la noche cargó sus tiliches, su cuerpo humano e ilegal, y caminó escondid@. en la noche fué, y aún ahora queremos llorar.

cada cuerpo que se viene al otro lado es otra razón por pelear, otro dolor que vengar, otra distancia que sobrevenir. cada cuerpo que nace en el otro lado es otro recuerdo que este lugar siempre fué nuestro, que la libertad no se pierde, que la rabia y la dignidad nunca mueren.

extitutions and unconsciousness

“The State is a condition, a certain relationship among human beings, a mode of behavior, we destroy it by contracting other relationships, by behaving differently toward one another… We are the State and continue to be the State until we have created the institutions ex-titutions that form a real community…”

-Landauer

we think we are still breathing. we think we are still breeding. we think we are still bleeding. all is well in the “free world”, then. but why do we feel as if underwater? each whisper amplified, each gesture met with watery friction. surely, it would be easier to just ride the wave.

we think we are still unconscious. can the Earth hear us? we muffle ourselves with technocapitalist abandon, with our TV dinners, with our false dreams, with our summits and Forums, with our theoretical summations, with our own bandannas. will Society hear us if we ping it once again?

Society is supine, sedentary, and starting to sneeze with the latest bout of NAFTA flu. yet still it sets its pigs on us. we do not need to build society, for it has built itself into the cubicles around us, into the neoimperial rubber bracelets around our wrists. like our unconscious bodies it flourishes as a parasitic bacterial fungus on those below, with a wink and a nod from the Left.

>^_^< mew

im a kitty >^_____^<

meow the state

meownarchy >^-^<

purr purr ^_^

marching the city

we walk the city and run the city and march it. each footstep an explosion and decatenation. the city exists when we take the streets, it speaks in our echoes.

these days the cops put up more barricades than the black-clad. we are out by night and day to change this, with arms-in-arms if need be. we have seen the efficacy of well-punctuated trash cans, rocks, anything will serve the purposes of the purposeful.

fuck the past we say. off the sidewalks, into the future! but we know our stories and our legends- they live with us in the streets. the insurrectionary now is where we live: we expand it with open, screaming mouths that break the silence of hegemony, inhales the pepper spray and keeps on shouting. this now transcends repression and abandons erstatz freedoms. in the occupied street there is no longer room for cops or snitches, the past cannot oppress us, and we won’t wait for the future to come liberate us.

whose streets? our streets. whose time? our time. we might as well point out that we are not only traffic, we are the street itself. the space between buildings is a valley through which the flood flows, and though now it gathers in gullies, you can hear us rising.

we let go of nostalgia when our longing for days we never saw is replaced by the telling of the now, no punctuation save fists in the air and no chronometry but the stomp of legs and broken windows. this is the poetry of uprising, we write it on our city.

they told us stories

what remains when the worlds created by our words are shattered? violence seizes space and time, destroying memory in the wake of its failure to speak it. the communicative project inherent in every utterance fails; the “grammar of the ordinary,” cannot survive the particular truths inhabiting the dis-membered margins of words like rape, massacre, or war.

in zapatista territory, we thought that the people were calm. really, they were just always certain of impending attack. still and ready, swinging legs back and forth over the edge of the precipice, they told us stories. the fog moved in quickly, and we had to move in closer to see each other’s faces. once a conversation was stopped by the sound of a helicopter. Sandra, our teacher, jerked her head towards the sky but could not find anything behind the clouds. the children playing in groups on the grass scattered in all different directions, silently, as if starting just another game of hide and seek. but they were all hiding. The noise moved away, and Sandra’s head lowered to where we could see her eyes. The conversation continued as her hands trembled.

revolution is violence in time and space. a rupture made sensible by linearity held as axiom, it re-asserts the inevitability of time as both ours and the Earths. what has happened will happen again, differently. in Tzotzil, Sa K’op means revolution: the word that revolves, mixes up, scrambles. a word that, in uttering itself, opens and splinters infinitely into constellations of multiple meanings. how, then, to use the language that we have now to speak of it?

the april uprising: on décapit(o)lisme

I. washington DC, where capitalism meets capit(o)lism meets c(o)pitalism and they have a joyous threesome. where have we been for the last ten years? measured not in battles won or lost but superhighways, petrodollar protectionism, u-turns for peace and justice, and answers to the wrong questions. when even traditional class struggle and armed struggle are made obsolete by the machinations of late capitalist industrialised States, what then?

II. think global, act local. think local, act global. think glocal. actually stop that, stop thinking. static on the radio, silence in the clearing, drums in our hearts and whirring in the wings. the stage is set now. the script supervisors are ready at stage left and your scenery painters have done a grand old job. we’re tired of wallpapering our bathrooms with yesterday’s stories and we think you missed a spot. over there, right here, the boards are wearing thin.