Anarchy
evokes
chicken body 
bumper cars.

Constant movement
that is not only 
undirected, but also:
fast,
violent,
random,
chaotic,
and doomed to be 
short-lived.

Anarchy 
seems like space 
in which
many participants
would soon be
on their backs --
legs churning 
in spastic bursts,
ineffectually.

Like toppled robots
or 
cockroaches that
waded through
gassy trenches.

Limbs moving,
as if confident 
that they can 
right the ship
and
recover the upright.

But everyone watching
knows they can't --
that the laws of physics
won't support it,
that it's just wasted
motion.

They might as well be
in night terrors,
for being able to move 
ineffectually seems 
only moderately less 
terrifying than not
being able to move at all --
when faced with a situation
from which one wants badly 
to get away.

But, maybe,
I've got it all wrong.

Maybe that's not 
Anarchy 
at all.