During the last debate Donald Trump called New York City a ghost town.

Having lived here in the 1970s I refuted the pseudo-POTUS.

The Big Orange doesn’t know shit from Shinola.

I admit the city blacked out in 1977.

I had a good time that night, drinking with my gay friends and trying to smash Fiorucci’s window to snatch a gold lame Elvis Suit.

Only twenty-five I easily outran the security.

The city was burning in the Bronx, Harlem, and the Lower East Side.

Sin was worshipped in Times Square.

This was our city, but it was never a ghost town and neither is New York now.

I am an anarchist. I only put only dog on a leash.

Pom Pom.

We lived two blocks from Mare-De-Lardo and nowhere is more a ghost town than Palm Beach after dark.

Duane Hanson statue guarding art.

The beach.

My godson wasn’t scared of the ghosts of Palm Beach nor those anywhere else in the world.

Trump doesn’t love anarchists and threatened New York and Portland with a cut-off of federal funds.

As a life-long anarchist I say, “FUCK YOU. No more years.” and I like living in a ghost town.

I might drink in the 169 bar alone, but one day we will dance again.

The ghosts of anarchy are voting all day-long.

Today I exercised my right and cried seeing the old Sistahs of the Hat struggling to cast their votes, dressed as if they were were going to church.

They know the battle is on.

For our children.

VOTE all you Ghost Town Anarchists.

Peace Love and Happiness.
ps my old dog Champoo was also an anarchist.

And a ghost along with Pom Pom.

But I love both ghosts and anarchists.

We are the future of the greatest city in the Solar System.