A tourist, I explore the zocalo slowly.
Determined to document the resistance, I duck beneath blue and green tarps that intensify the rage beneath.
This plastic has been strung to protect the protestors from storms and intrusions such as mine. I count three-hundred and two tents before I’m deterred by my lack of information.
Bereft of sunshine, this tarp city eludes definition, is nowhere for me to eavesdrop, is nowhere but is simultaneously is ubiquitous, borderless, raging.
This scene makes me think of what Zack De La Rocha describes in his Occupy Wall Street poem at: http://news.twentyfourbit.com/2011/11/zack-de-la-rocha-occupy-wall-street-poem/.
- Rage against the machine–whatever machine is coming at you.
shewhodaresnothing 