Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?