war on terror
Ever since it was announced that old Praha would be allowing, would be installing, would be promoting poetry machines throughout the city, dark elements of the Republic, controllers and others all souped up on Prosaic (sic, real sic), have been fomenting to take back the narrative line from the mad semiotics of lyricists and closet bards out pimpin’ the night with scheming rhymes, pent-up meters, and broken lines. O with their broken lines.
“It’s one more indictment of the hard drinkin’ Zeman,” some citizens say. “She walks in beauty like the night, but not on my watch, not in my firmament. Sto ho stay away.”
Me, I’m excited; upbeat, you might say. Reminds me of the good ol’ busker days in Boston; the Harvard Square mimes with their memes; that spooky dark clad femme fatale playing The Doors’ “20th Century Fox” on her portable whorlitzer, reverb echoing off the rounded walls of the State Street Underground train station, maybe thirty feet beneath the spot where Crispus Attucks looked down, like an early Eddie Murphy, at the fresh musketball hole in his chest and muttered, all raw with rage, “What the %$&@!” – the victim of the Red Coat hunt for asymmetrical colonial terrorists, who would not keep to allotted lines but emjambed and broke rhyme, like motley jungle guerillas. Of love.