Dinosaurs, as I was once fondly referred to by another, are among you. Lumbering at the edge of gatherings with a beer in our hand, keeping silent, letting new warriors stretch their wrenched wings. Many of us feel out of place, it was not that long ago that we where sitting where you are now. New, full of hope and rage, ready to fight the Juggernaut of industrial ecocide. Many of us look at our journey as though it was just a blink of an eye. Hell 10, 20,30 years on the frontlines, time moves fast. It is funny how an dea manifests itself and becomes a lifelong P Pursuit “this book is outdated, I think I’ll get a job at x and learn how to work on the new ones” So here we are, decades later, alot of fancy training by those that made the damn thing… We fix your shitty cars at gatherings, hopefully teaching you in the process how machines work. We are the sketchy old folks without many tattoos, the elder troglodytes that still hold onto hope and rage. We dream of some future when we can sit around the burned husk of the machine, listening to stories of how you found some a page, on something that used to be called the internet, and helped save us all. We will shut up and leave you with the ramblings of some old EF! Mechanic who likes to make pretty words about awful machines.
The power of Mr. Clean
In wild wood I caught a glimpse
of profane flame above the trees
I crested the ridge with wrench in hand
and a bottle of wicked treat
for the steady heart of this beast
would scream a song of death for me
Slowly under fence I crept
to the powers source
in shadows out of sight
i raise my bottle and poured
1 gallon of oil per 10 oz. of bleach.
As I slid under the fence
and crossed the stream
the death rattle did roar
A crescendo of of screams
a sweat music to my soul
It’s life at this site
dies in a hot glow of irreparable dread
the lights in silence fade.
Amazing how the viscosity of oil
by simple addition can be destroyed
and you can be
an enemy of the machine.