Those people are illusions, but their mothers weep

I’m playing loud guitar music through tiny plastic speakers. An epic angelic chorus kind of thing, you know, at the end of the album and they want you to remember the good times you had with them for the last forty minutes and feel like they really took you someplace. I just got done with internet window shopping for the last hour or so, at first looking for music equipment that I was curious about, then for any music equipment at all, then for just anything. I started looking at the parts of Craigslist that I never look at, like “electronics.” There was a PS3 for sale and I didn’t know how the hell I’d ended up someplace where a PS3 even existed. I usually don’t see PSanythings, anywhere. I was on eBay and thinking about trap music, and I almost typed in the name of trap producer Zaytoven, as if I could buy him. It wasn’t a joke, or a statement, I just had the search bar and a desire to consume Zaytoven.
I only started saying I was “an artist” a few years ago. At first it was a secret, even though I’d been focused on writing and music for years (really my entire life) and had never been shy about the fact that those were my noble goals. It was easy to hide when I didn’t know any other creative people, though, except for one or two along the way. Now all of my friends are self-proclaimed artists, and even though I’d probably be doing the same things if I’d never met them, I now wonder if I’m just forging identity through association.
I don’t know how to not forge identity through association. There’s a monk who comes into my job, and the other day I asked him “how has your practice affected the way that you experience friendship and fit it into your life?”
He gave some vague answers for a while (I don’t even know why he ever responds to me within an hour, because his answer will not come for at least that long), and then said “You ever wake up next to someone you’ve been with for a while, and you look at them, and you’re like ‘nope, I can’t do it anymore’? It’s like that, but with samsara.
At first you think you can just kind of block it out and focus and meditate, but you realize that not only do you still have to break up with samsara, but suddenly every day is Valentine’s Day. She says ‘oh, honey, I’m going to put on my nicest things’ and you swallow what you have to say and play along for a bit. ‘Sweetie, we’re going to go out and have an amazing dinner tonight, I’m so lucky to have you, we’re so lucky to have each other,’ and everybody’s so happy that they got chocolates even though it’ll rot their teeth, and that they got a car even though they’re just worrying about somebody scratching the car, so they double park. You start trying to get into fights with her just to see if you can push the limits, or get out without having to admit it’s what you really want to do, but that never works and it makes things a little worse for a while but then samsara puts on all of its prettiest things again and you try to tell yourself ‘it’s not so bad, she looks really nice, she’s not really that boring I guess,’ but you still know you’re done. You finally do it and it’s like ‘Sweetie, what am I going to tell my friends when they ask where you are?’ and if you’re like me you kind of back out a bit at first and go ‘well, maybe don’t TOTALLY get out of my life, maybe we can work SOMETHING out,’ but it’s too late. Now I walk around and see how people react to things, show off the shiny piece of samsara that they just got or made, and they’re so proud but that thing they’re proud of isn’t going to help, either.”
Keeping in mind that I see this monk eating candy all the time, so the bit about the dangers of chocolate is questionable.
Anyway, identity through association. Yes, this world is illusory. Samsara’s still everywhere. It’s pretty gorgeous. Some days the scenery can just about make you cry. Other days I feel like I’m straining to understand what the big fucking deal is about hillsides, fog, the Sun, etcetera. It’s just a buncha phenomena. People? Human connections? You mean random dead psychic magnetism? Is it alive? I don’t think I will ever, ever know. The doubt is strong with this one.
I made a dharma girlfriend a couple of months ago. We met each other and went “you will teach me!” “you will teach me!” “we will have perfect love!” “we will travel to Bali!” “I am yours, exclusively, to be owned and operated!” “I am prepared to give my all!” and we fell in love on day one and traded house keys on day two and took them back on day four because we honestly hated each other’s guts and there was no respect or friendship that could make it through the fog of our volatile mixed anger.
“You wake up one day, and look at it and go ‘nah, I just can’t'”
Okay so when I meet a person who believes in falling in love with me instantly, we can do it whether it’s good or sensible or not. When I meet somebody who believes in the power of music, we can make it whether it’s good or sensible or not. When I meet somebody who wants me to understand how silly it all is and give it up for Buddha, I can have my core shaken by him whether he’s good or sensible or not.
To renounce or not to renounce. The world is choking on garbage. Books and records are made of the blood of the Earth. Books don’t necessarily pull kids off of the street away from guns. Guns are samsara. But no, they’re real. They’re really shooting people. But those people are illusions. But their mothers weep. But emotion is attachment.
Hinduism was altered by the leaders in the region so as to create the caste system and deliberately subjugate portions of the population. The same was done with many attributes of many religions. I often wonder if Buddhism’s anti-ambition and anti-materialism messages are just control systems. Buddha gave up the palace, eh? Sounds like a stooge. An actor. He had great PR, right? The crown sacrifices one son to some stage asceticism and carefully planned words of renunciation, and then generations of people will fight for their right to be poor and unthreatening.
But it still makes sense.
Am I living for the body of the populace? My flesh will die but flesh will live. There is no immortality but to massage the sides of the Human Time Anaconda as it slithers down the big shiny blackness. (The Doctrine of Reincarnation is Literal/It Is Metaphorical/They Don’t Know/They Know)
((I realize that to anyone who considers themselves well-versed in Buddhism or “certainly better-versed than THIS asshole” this all seems dumb, but trust me: I’m better-versed than I am. This is an emotional thing, it’s not about your cold logical Bodh-splaining machospiritual act, buddy))
Do I want the world to be filled with more garbage? With more chapbooks and cassette tapes and memories of an artform that swallowed itself so hard that it couldn’t touch people anymore? I get hella rashes thinking about art about art about visions that compete with past art to make new visions that explain the importance of art visions. To quote the ’80s, “ew, like, gag me with a spoon.”
I fell in love with art because I was alone and it didn’t take anyone else. Art is a surrogate person through whom you learn. But I put so much value on it that I will set people aside because I suspect that the growth of my art will do more than my time with them. I knew a guy who said “art is the only thing that makes life worth living” and when I protested, he was like “what else would?” and I said “people” and he said “oh, yeah, I guess,” as if the folks by river basins in 500 BC who only occasionally ever got to hear a song were having it so, so hard because there were no amazing postmodern graphic sci-fi novels yet. Which is all to say that my own creative insularity sickens me, half of the time (Gemini power).
How to get involved with people.
Challenge yourself?
Do I want to farm?
Yeah, I want to farm. How the fuck do you farm? Where?
A farm?
Is this journaling? Is it whining?
Why am I self-conscious about that prospect?
Because I’ve seen people make fun of journaling, and not couching things in metaphor.
Those people were grad students.
Students of creativity.
God is the only creator, everybody else is just reconstituting supplies.
If I went on a boat across the Atlantic, it would be interesting, and then when I was done with it I would say “it was pretty tiresome, too. You just spend a lot of time on a boat, totally bored.”
And if I farmed………….
“Trauma art is stupid”
“Art about yourself is stupid”
“Write about that stop sign”
“Write about space”
“Space is cliche, now- write about what you know”
“But act like you don’t know yourself”
“You don’t know yourself but your intuition is absolute”
“Your intuition is questionable- in order to hear it properly, you first must know yourself”
“It’s very important that you go through the difficult work of painfully learning who you are. I am very upset by the sound of creaking doors, and everybody in my family knows not to use doors around me. Getting over your bullshit is so difficult, and most people can’t really see clearly enough to get down to the level of their bullshit and start facing it. I don’t like it when people take a long time in line at the gas station.”
God damn Jesus fuck.
Signed, Lovingly,

How is a ladder also a kite?


Thank you for replying & explaining your views & for pointing me in the direction of Family Talk. When I am with a more reliable form of internet I will definitely check it out. I’m familiar with Dobson & used to listen to him on the radio as a kid when riding with my dad (usually to church), but I haven’t listened to him in many years.

I know it’s been a while but in my recollections of you, you seemed always engaged, compassionate, intellectually honest, your faith genuine, & your desire to do good for others was clear. This is why I felt I could ask the question I asked. I think you MIGHT agree that it’s been difficult to talk or listen across political lines—maybe always, but it seems more & more—lately.

For myself I have decided that to follow the example of my mother—& make listening my number one political priority—is the most Godly use of my time & I hope that I can do it well & to His glory. I’m sure I will fail at times.

I was at the march in San Antonio (largely to bear witness, but also to be supportive of my friends) & cannot speak for the marches held in DC or elsewhere except that I know some people who were at many of them, & I know how they described it & I know what those people are like & what’s important to them. I can try to address your statement & explain a little of my own hopes & of what I witnessed at the marches & what I have learned from talking with some of these other people who are the people some of them the people who march I have talked with them very closely, these others & myself & I have learned some words to say about my perspective & about the perspectives I witness— what I think the expectations of many of those who attended are/were/maybe will continue to be, & if you’re interested you can read & if you’re not, no worries & I hope you are well:

I lean on a hope, always, for common ground. There are many disagreements worth having—in good time, I hope: reasoned address of political realities (the facts of many people believing so differently from one  another & yet trying to live together—it feels like insanity, but there is much of God in this attempt to find harmony. It’s difficult to carry out in His way) but here I just want to describe something I witnessed & try to   explain generally the picture I think it paints. I will not ask you to agree with my assessment, but would not also try & prove me wrong (something I don’t expect you to do, but it is usually my own first instinct when I find my disagreement with someone over their perspectives is incredibly important to me—I give in too easily to an overwhelming knowledge that the implications residing in another person’s perspective are a direct threat (to the good) (to my family) (to my body & my faith) [& these are all so important to me. I hold them so close. They are what provide me comfort & strength… they are what teach me how to Love.] &/but, I will try to proceed with the perspective that we are all created beings in search of our maker & that in the end this is a beautiful thing & there is much suffering built into this beautiful thing & it should be my aim to alleviate as much of that suffering as I can within my lifetime for as many as possible for as long as possible & then die. There is nothing that sounds like God’s voice to me more than this thought when I hear it. It’s a trembling thought, & I am overwhelmed. & I overspeak myself. I cling to pretense. & I take pride in my trembling & I overspeak the voice that is God & I stumble & fall to anger & frustration & confusion & whatever else is lying around on the ground when I stumble there. There are so many pitfalls in the holding of collective hearts. The best we can do is our best. I know you are doing yours.

I am not a Clinton apologist & I did not vote for her, but also I was traveling all over the U.S. making books & meeting with artists & making music & trying to come to a better understanding of the country I live in—I did not have a fixed address for about a year & was not allowed to register—I have to live with this decision & whatever it says about me as a citizen). Still, I don’t expect we (you & I) would find much politically to agree on, but I want to be clear that I would never expect a person ought to vote out of a gender-based allegiance… “just because we are both women,” as you say. & I get the lack of support for Clinton by many, but to me this is a separate issue from accepting Trump’s agenda on its face or thinking about his moral character. (Angel said “lesser of two evils” & I’ll generally go along with that thought, but the lesser of two is still evil—if we’re using that language). It’s important to respect the office of the presidency. Almost as important as it is to take one’s role as citizen seriously. Faith & family come first in my mind but citizenship is important & the office of the president (as a servant of the people) & of all elected & appointed members of civil service are important for us as citizens to respect—this is what I believe.

& it’s very much in keeping with what I witnessed at the march. I’ve seen a lot of people acting afraid & so I think we are afraid, a lot of people. I think a lot of people are afraid because a lot of people are acting afraid & so I think I am probably right. I was overseas in 2008 & I remember from watching these little video clips from back home (that I remembered never really captured the way it felt to live back home—the news & so on) that while many were celebrating, many  began to live in fear of what was next.

At the march I didn’t walk with anyone acting afraid. I saw one person acting afraid. They wore a mask. They shouted angry things. They wore a mask. They shouted. They raised their fists they pointed. They wore a mask. They ran away. I think this is acting afraid even though I also think that it is an attempt to act brave in the face of fear. I think they wore a mask because it would help them to become brave & to do the thing they feel must be done. I think I’m right about this. & I think it is a fearful acting. & I think it is brave. & that these two things are not in contradiction with one another & both are true. But I did not walk with anyone acting afraid. I walked with a lot of people who were enjoying being in a place together with other folks in a place together & not feel so afraid. I heard folks expressing joy with one another & I listened to some words connecting the present with the past & descriptions of what hard work looks like & what a cheerful heart sounds like & statements agreed to consider it our duty to love & protect one another. There was, in the march I attended—since it was a local march—some discussion of local concerns relating to the broader ones. “There are companies that contract with the government here & the government is here: let us work to make the working of that government transparent  & let us work to encourage the ethical treatment of humans & let us work toward fair pay for our hotel industry, let us preserve our public parks, let us keep the refugees who live here safe. Let us take care of the least among us. And if no one opposes us, we will have cared for those who need caring. And if we are opposed, we will have cared for those who need care.” – was sort of like the thing/I paraphrase. I shall phrase eventually somewhere else.

What I saw were a lot of folks looking to do the good they see needs doing & asking one another for help & offering to help.

I’m afraid it may seem I’m covering the easy part. The temptation is to give lipservice to what it seems we can all agree on. It is given, & so we ignore it & focus on the places where we differ. Yes, yes, everyone thinks their side is right, move on. But I think it’s important to spend time acknowledging this. At all times, not only now. But also yes now. Even though the election is over, it makes no real sense to tell anyone to stop doing whatever they are doing to protect their family & their loved ones & themselves & continue working for what they believe is right. & it makes little sense that if a person perceives suffering & wishes to combat that suffering, that they should elect to make as many enemies as possible in the way they go about it. I don’t think most people are doing this, but vocal groups are doing both & it’s completely human & understandable & probably justifiable. But to refuse to talk to one another is death to a community. This seems to me unchallengeable & it doesn’t matter as much who’s responsible for the lack of listening as much as it is to remember we are all responsible to it. Spending time in agreement with these concepts is what I consider unity.

Agreement, protest, complicity, resistance. We do these things for those we love. But we also love one another. & I can love a man whom I believe intends to strike me. & I can love him after he strikes me. If I am strong enough to remember to do so I can offer him my other cheek—& if I am strong enough I will not run, but face & pay attention & try to exemplify & pursue compassionate behavior. This is what I see & witness in those I know who participated in the march. I see it all over.

Yet it is becoming more & more difficult. We trust so many voices that tell us we are different from one another. We forget how to disagree. This is dangerous, I think. It’s good that we are in conversation. I hope it is. Even if you find me full of it, you listened. That’s the main thing I want to think about here. The other stuff. Right. It’s really important. & if we can talk, we can talk about it. If not we’ll just have to keep fighting about it.


They say all information in the universe is conserved

Replace the word “gift” with “thing” or “occurrence” or else “huh?” & does it better settle in you my more central thought–that to be taken from implies right or ownership or at least possession. Not certain my opinions are writ anywhere per se, I simply foist them about, to whatever end.
Life takes. Very well. If the function of life is to take, perhaps I shall make a gift of what I possess, and life and I may not come to blows over it (life also wins anyway). Is this resignation or recognition?
Also, I don’t do this most often. Most often I cling to my things (whatever I value) are they removed any less efficiently for my clinging, or does it mainly increase my fear? I’ve been reading St Teresa of Avila; perhaps this accounts for my religious tone-gift. A thing that is that need not have been? A thing that will not be that shall not be remembered much long in the appreciated ways…
They say all information in the universe is conserved… So… God remembers I suppose, but who cares what God remembers? She speaks in x-Rays. Listens in singularity. Embraces in decimation. Teaches with pain. What God remembers. Still, I should hope the ride be worth it now.
What do I care of was? As though I can come to the end, meet that end, and somehow then reflect upon it. Again, maybe God will evaluate, but God’s evaluations pay me nothing. It is worth now. Yes. Now in abundance. Worth it much. Though drastic and confusing, it has not been dull. & “not dull” requires attention. Dull is where I go when inattentive.
The dense of it (con?): I like the way you play. Do you not play? Well I like the way I play with how you aren’t playing. This amuses? Does not amuse? Ah well, whichever, I love you in whichever case for all of it.
I like your settle. Yes, I threw a very fine word carelessly. I have been writing “unsettled” quite a bit, & it’s an odd comfort, as though I am just this far from rest. I am not distressed or afraid or lost, but merely the minor addition of “not” to my settled self. Nothing more to be but not that. It is so close.
Dog is a good example: the way I have seen one try and find its sitting spot, a curling step, a lowering to, no, not quite right, circle again, lower, hmm not just quite yet, another little circle maybe, what about now? This seems good. Yes. I feel so often like this. Not off somewhere chasing tires, though a fine thing, but finding a settle. One can make many little circles and just never quite, which is also a fine thing.
Clocks also stop, keep poor time, relate to little I value. Clocks also make so many lovely circles, so like the sun the year the moon and so on, clocks describe the center. A clock may be incredibly unpleasant, loud, aggressive… These are clocks designed for the aggressive and unpleasant… A clock may take great care to make, be a joy to hear, long golden chains, cats tails, rhythmic like a pulse. Clocks are also very fine things. I worry over those (myself) who name their clocks after their suffering and proceed to worship.
I hope you’ve eaten well as well. Can there be much greater hope than this? Well, even if there may, I don’t think I’ve felt quite so uplifted in someone’s good wishes as just a moment ago when I saw you asking after my nourishment.
In whatever sort of nourishment on which you are sparse of late (even should you feel as I do over my beans & bread, that you can do-without better than you knew) I hope for you a feast of it, whatever it may be!
Yours in Crackers,

I would settle

I do not remember. Where is this claim of Life is but a Gift writ? Is it writ in contract form and got my X affixed upon it? No? Then I deny its claim. Or your claim. I forget.
I’ve always liked tests. Loved tests. Sharpened pencils and sheets of paper placed on teacher’s happy desk. Envious looks upon my neck and back whilst I saunter off. Shameful behavior, I admit. But there it is, a confession of small sins. And as we know, from such yarn a giant ball of thread. Around and around and around we go. Hurrah! finally, if lucky. One giant guffaw before the unravel. Was it worth the ride? (I hope you consider this question now rather than then, at least in some small way)
“Mighty actor”? Life is but a stage. And so I welcome all upon my small slice of it. I hope you don’t carry that tone all about with you, like a malady. Is this why the barista said “House”?
I love my characters. This particular character seemed more interested in Place than $$.Odd, I know. We seemed to “connect” well, but, as you well know, how lasting is a first reconnoiter? It is but a Start, I will claim, and so, in this case, a fine one.
I would settle. Life teaches Settle. Is it not writ on that Contract you be going on about? No? Look at the fine print. It is there, I promise. Also, “settle” is a command a master gives to a dog he is training. Something about the sound of the word is calming to the animal. I have used it. I have been it. Isn’t settle a fine word?
There is a clock ticking. Maybe another time I will tell you more about it. Maybe you have zero interest in clocks, which, in some (many?) quarters, would place you well ahead of the game. But, I must confide, interested or not, clocks nonetheless tick.

’tis no bummer to desire nowhere


I shall keep an eye out for a sea for you, but it looks like mostly creeks and the Pacific Ocean. I drove by one sea on the way but it was named “lake.” Look at that lake, would you? said the Mormon, Simply all full of salt! Tis a miracle of heaven!

Tis no bummer to desire nowhere, I think. Or at least, tis not necessary. Nowhere is a good where, it demands a full listening. It’s the resistance we carry that makes the abyss so uncalm. Surrender may be, I think I am coming to this, the only way.

Life removes nothing that was not a temporary gift to begin with. You may remember or no.
This will not be on the test.
Grateful for your words. Lonely on the road.


Henry Sea

Not to be too demanding, but after further consideration I think I would like a Henry Sea more than a Henry Creek. Lately I have more pronounced ebbs and flows. Today I am wan. Listless even. Yesterday, last week, much of the same. I re-watched season one of Deadwood and then season one of The Wire. Blasphemy, I know, but Deadwood was I think better. And by a substantial margin (yet I still love the Wire). Do I recall correctly that you were not a fan of Deadwood? I wonder if I should think less of you now, or maybe I will just chalk it up to you “going through a stage.”
As you know, I have been trying to reconnect with The Man. Some days I purr right along and others I get lost before I begin. My tolerance for the general population, for managing others, has almost fully evaporated. I fully remember how to do all of the things I did before, but I struggle to convert that memory into use. Some days I feel like a helpless animal, unable to find food to feed itself. Maybe that is only self-pity? I assure you I eat well enough.
But then, some days I feel much like a shell. Like an imposter, if you get right down to it. I represent myself as a collection of ideas and thoughts (and silent claims), but of what once was me, and the world I then inhabited/navigated. It seems now I inhabit some other world, not this old one and not a new one either. Most days it is tiring to examine this new world and find place in it. On such days I wonder if I truly wish to be nowhere, in no world.(Isn’t there a better way to say that? It kind of popped up suddenly, and, well, there it is. I’ll not pull it out of there — though I might wish later that I had. Poet’s Creed, and all that.)
No bummerness intended. Just pushing out what’s been skulking about in there. I trust you know well enough what I speak of. And so I thank you for being there, wherever there might be at present, to receive such words. Where else would I send such a thing?

Once again reminded: Life takes, to paraphrase the aforementioned Al Swearingen. That is the one constant.

Try not to forget that.

Best wishes


Field notes on a women’s march in Texas


I won’t pretend to hold a particularly sophisticated political philosophy, nor would I presume to feign ignorance to excuse my many blindspots & biases, the fact of flaw I take as given. Regardless, this past few weeks there was very little which gave me cause for encouragement besides the mainly diasporic (of my own geography) voices of the women I look to as mentors to my heart. I name them here casually other than their given only as I keep them much close in admiration but also not wish to be the shouter of names so much as my own grateful sentiment—

& so there is the woman

who is my mother. On so many potentially untrivial things we find cause to disagree, but that her insistence in politics leans on the bedrock of the ear. There is no useful politics, she holds, without we are listening. I can do nothing but grow in this understanding. I can feel nothing but gratitude for the constancy of her love & strong example of leadership within her community & empathy & action in favor of those in need.

& so there is the woman

I at one time named to myself the Dusk. The qualities of her I have been considering are her devotion to immigrant communities & her insistence on challenging the brains of those near her toward answering the immediate nature of their political realities. She is relentless in her kindness & a brilliant dreamer of dreams.

& so there is Blue,

who organizes for Planned Parenthood & who has helped children learn to be together with animals & who gathers the words of other women as they confront their planetary natures. She is the most poetry of any human I have yet known. & though she is already a healer, she also strives to a perfecter relationship with the unity of body & mind & guiding others toward that end.

& so there is Red,

who looks through science & art & poetry toward the better understanding of the sexes of the genders of the people toward the people—one to another, the many to the many. She teaches me precision in my contemplations. She teaches me acceptance from within. She examples the act of responsible discourse & the value of a good walk. 

& so there is White,

& I cannot avoid the coloration, not is it skin deep, but as light galactic I think. She is ferocious in her cause toward compassion. Patient with ignorance. Unafraid to air her fears if it will help another see. Unwilling to accept the current narrative—in any spectrum of politic—of our nation.

& so I am realizing

                                    I can write the names all night, & hope that in my stalling here it is not a sign that the list is near an end. What I mean to impart is I have been of late—as many—stewing in quiet dejection over this cloud I consider to be passing through our midst, the most convenient name to give our cloud is Trump. But, of course, this is not the name of the cloud & nor did it just now arrive & nor will it have gone once the man has gone. It is a momentary name for something very old.

Understood on some level there is work to do & there is hope to hold to, yet my stewing remains—as I’m sure for many for many for many the stewing the isolating feeling remains, but it has been the observable honesty & unwavering commitment of these women (& more & more & more) to the walking of a walk (and by this I do yes mean a march here & there & apparently all the damn-over, but I also mean just the walk itself of head-high, willing-to-admit struggle/unwilling-to-allow the struggle to dissuade)  that has filled my heart with hope for the long darkened path that so obviously looms ahead.

As such & in such a frame as that there is somehow, without my having invited it in, a joy to find.

Every time I have thought of Friday, I have also remembered Saturday. & each time remembering Saturday, I go in love again with my planet.


& so I do not often march.

But today, in this hot little corner of Texas January, I did. I did not voice much, but I listened much. I took notes from leaving my bungalow & walking the miles to City Hall & from City Hall into the city & from the city past the Jailhouse & past the Jailhouse down the lane and on into the end of that walking & into the continuing of the walking & we continue I think a good walk.

I know not for sure what value it holds to have noted.

But I have noted & wanted to share. & probably I mean to share this on the blog of the blog of the Primates, but this letter is mainly to you, & I hope it remains relatable in another place, but mainly & really it is to you:

[field notes on a women’s march]

**watched the thing [inauguration]—

There seems nothing to note at the moment

that could benefit any thought about 

collective governance. More at maybe


                       It was hollow
I was hollow
                       I heard Trump wanted tanks

                       & kind of wish he’d got ‘em.


Heading to stand with the women. Frazzled of brain (me) but moving of feet. A heart towards next—


Hornets’ nest hangs tree limb over Broadway walk
Tower of Americas hangs in
languid haze

Unhurried feet yet fleet
I come to throw my lot in with these women

Blue & Red & White:

Blue as in the West of
           red woods white

Red as in the white Midwest

White as all light
           jazz as fuck
the rio & the gulf

Who hold the heart of my head
Making up what wisdom
                there is to touch
                in “we” & “will”

& where I throw my lot (mother, sister, other)
the best of those whose love is greatest


whose insistence everpresent ever present
whose compassion teaches


there is no better “here”
to stand

there is no later time
to do the working good

I throw my lot in with them
the lot I’m thought I’m lotted
could honestly do no better

Still I cannot bring myself into a “stand against,” an anything
Only the great “is” of another way

[City Hall on Military Plaza
Far from Mall on Washington
& nearer to the “wall” of ill of will
Tower of Americas hides behinds
a luxury hotel]

Shade of oaks in hot January

Acorns & humans in the moss of gentle grass


                “Men of Quality Don’t Fear Equality”
                “The Future is Female”
                “Demand Respect”
                “We Rise”
                “Our Rights aren’t up for Grabs”
                “Muslims for Justice for All”
                “We are =”

This body leans against an oak

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These bodies are present
A quiet joy resides/presides
Sparse police presence

11 bike cops
& two cruisers

they are leaning against
the stucko walls across from hall
playing on their phones to ground


cop at the cruiser bites into an apple

little one in a yellow wreath
shirt reading “love wins”

this body leans against a tall old oak

                             people who don’t use their legs to walk don’t use a sidewalk—are only seen as disadvantaged because our environment is designed to cater otherwise—nobody remains able their entire lives

Considering what moves out of this moment—the “next”est of things maybe.The we the I that waits to heal (an act). Yes we walk in show to symbolize our walking, walk in order to have it said we walked to show our walking. We walk to say it said our walking were for good & to recall the together of our walking good how many walking else around the round the round of earth around.

& here.
in this later now

when we are alone again

& it is cold & dark & worrysome & difficult to remember, well, there was a walking that we walk still we walked & walked & walked among the walking; worthy of our walking there are all of these, these humans here, I remember & will remember it as such & such & such is the hope is the hope

is the hope

“Narcissistic Personality Disorder: Look it up”

Crowd does the crowd thing pressing in to gaggle like as geese

Taking audio of the speakers at the steps the speakers at the steps who focus on shared principles & wages at the hotel & hotels in public park & NSA backyard contract. Woman whose head is covered cannot be heard for half her speaking & by the time the thing is fixed I wish only to hear her all of it, she is the heart of the moment in this we. Weaves together past & present struggle in this now of now of now of America the now & before. Insistence upon equality does not appeal to fear. Does not overpower the moment purple. No slogans. no platitudes. Just a quiet collective heart of education to touch. & I do not know her name.

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Medina in a white shirt looks like a statue smiling overrighteous politician. Posing for photos. Politician. How do we stay close? Avoid the photo op? 

Woman in the Tower waving flailing arms & screaming “Trump!” & nothing more.

“We love you!” “We love you!” I am trying to show her that I mean it. Because I mean it.

Past Market square—onlooks like to skipping stones, dangling a foot in, bored
Elder couple wet of eye, fist to the grateful sky

By the jail of coiled barbed wire
a disembodied voice cast down 



             What’s going on out there!”

We try to explain, he’s not hearing

                       “No! More! Mass incarceration!”


They are waving from the stoops along W Martin
Drones taking profiles
Writers exchanging information

& I am not elated nor inspired.

& maybe just the sense of the weight of the walk of the weight of the moment of the path that is uncertain & thirsty & together
& determined

we reassure

“It is our duty to love & protect one another.”
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all my fractured full of Love,