Informant38

wood s lot throws the dice toward Edward Galeano who wanders Chicago's paved swamps looking for the Haymarket memorial, which of course doesn't have corporeal substance in Chicago. May Day says Sr. Galeano, to which someone as idle as I am can only say May Day in return, May Day May Day May Day May Day May Day May Day.
Workers of The World, It's Break Time!
But for all that, and unarchly, not-ironically, backing the pretentiometer down to near-zero, let me say, that for all that I am willing to carry a ten-pound sledge back and forth and in parade along any urban boulevard or rural byway, arm-in-arm with a woman with a sickle or a scythe, I'm recalling another marking-out of that calendar moment, a deeper remembrance of the same spring rise and lift of blood sap and vinegar, and as it comes up, in a moment of celebration, of much more than mere utility, in which the very young and the very old have a given place as firm as the brightest rose of the human hour, when we once in our Old World dancing gave all to the day, and drew bright ribbons 'round a pole of no utility, whatsoever, other than the fecund grace of deepest reproduction.
And that both sides of the seeming conflict had this in common that they destroyed, each in their own manner, that very celebration, the peasants in both conflicted unions slapped up into rank and file, and the flowers left to Valentine's and Easter and dear Mother in the West and God knows who and what behind that Iron drapery. As though two hands had done the work of one, unseen, agency.