When I write a poem

OK, have we gotten that out of our system?

I wanted to share the recently rejected poem that I sent to Poetry magazine (mostly to see what a rejection letter from them looked like). I didn't expect them to print it, but now that they wont I can. It is a little something. That's all.

When I write a poem

When I write a poem I picture myself stringing

words together like they are yarn.

I am knitting hats and scarves and on

ambitious nights of self I make sweaters with patterns.

They're cute.

They're getting better.

But when I read one of your poems

I imagine that you've carved them out of clay,

sculpted them carefully with no crevasse or

point of interest unplanned,

no punctuation mark a mistake,

no syllable unaccounted for.

Your creation stands as it was meant to stand.

Is it possible that there's an art inside an art?

That your voice or style might be characterized

by another genre altogether?

Fired in an oven,

shrunken in the wash

and walla!

The finished product.

Signed and dated.

And once you've created enough of them

to call it a life's work they'll say that you made it

when I was just sitting at home having fun with patterns.

(dedicated to Sharon Olds, one of my favorite poets)

"I'm having Issues"

"I’m having Issues.”

I wanted to start by saying something that celebrates women. 
All to often, it’s a kind of bad news to be one, 
the lie that we live in that we all have the same freedoms.

It’s enough just to look at the worldview to know 
that however far we have come on this issue  
there’s still a long way to go.

So, to celebrate women, first you must find them, 
(they're usually behind the scenes). 

The marginalized, often despised strong women of the world, 
making history and babies and poetry happen since time began.

You know that expression, “He’s a self-made man.”?

There is no corresponding phrase for women, because ALL women 
are self-made women.

Any woman who survived her childhood and managed to escape 
the kitchen is a self-made woman, there is no need to make the distinction. 

In fact, if a woman isn’t making it on her own, 
she is considered “taken care of”.

It’s a strange thing to love being female in the face of such 
blatant hatred towards us.

Now, I say hatred so as not to be confused, I’m not  
just a little bit upset about a few slanderous remarks from some fat talking heads, or the comments from Republican representatives that’ll make your stomach clench up and your hands coil into fists-

I am talking about the sheer amount of rapists, and murderers, and predators that exist in this sick society that we live in. 

Because Patriarchy is a vicious system, full of wage gaps and rape victims.

And I’m watching as they attack the hard earned rights of women in this country, and those gains, my friends, are not going to be let go of quietly.

I, for one, think they should be fought for and protected.

But then, I guess that makes me a militant feminist- so go ahead-

call me all your names. 
You know, I don’t even flinch at name calling anymore.

Doesn’t mean I want to debate this shit with every meat-head I meet, either.

Can you believe that some days I just get sick of hearing it altogether?

You know what else I’m sick of hearing? You throw like a girl.

“Oh, you throw like a girl.” you throw like a girl.

Damn it, I am a girl! So why should I aspire to throw any other way?

Like you think it’s so great that you got all the upper body strength.

Man, I have the strength of connectedness. 

I am the Earth and its consciousness and yes, I throw like a girl.

I’m better at a lot of things and I think that the point is that

Equality isn’t about treating everyone the same cause 
we’re all the same, ok?

It’s about treating everyone with respect 
because we’re all different.

That there are strengths and weaknesses in each of us.

And that we may learn from each other’s experiences.

Cause me? Man, I’m all about the win-win.

I’m all about the putting time into the collective, because together we are greater than

And men- if you can’t see that "Women’s Issues" are of your concern too

then I’m afraid we’re all screwed!

So, it should bother you when Republicans try to throw us under the bus.

It should bother you that they want us all bare foot and pregnant.

And ladies and gentlemen, if you think you’ve had enough yet, it’s time to tell them.

This isn’t about contraception. It’s about adequate healthcare and education in the first place. It’s about getting paid 80 cents on the dollar still, and being told to cough it up for daycare- I mean, they got us coming and going, don’t they?

They got us squabbling about it on Election Day, 

and I’m telling you-

don’t be fooled. 

They will divide us any way that they can

because when we come together- we are greater than.

And women: 

The calamities of the world are Women’s Issues.

This ten-year war on terror is affecting women too. 
The holes in the Ozone layer and the prison systems and the lunches that they’re feeding to the kids in the schools- is our issue.

And, frankly, we’ve got a lot of work to do.

To find peace (and I mean for everyone).

To protect and replace the social safety net that  
we put there, and for a good reason.

To stamp out greed, and hatred, and corruption,

and learn to see every injustice as the problem,

and learn how to put our two cents in to help solve them.

Because the future is brand new.

So what are the women and men of conscience going to do?

Cause when it comes down to it, it’s ganna be up to me and you. 

An (amended yet again) Open Letter

In the latest version of my poem An Open Letter to the FBI I've included a quick remark about Ernest Hemingway. I did not mean for this to be some obscure gesture toward the fact that the FBI spys on our celebrities too. It is actually a recent article published in the New York Times by a close friend of Hemingway's, and I think it deserves mention. In July of 2011, A. E. Hotchner told us the truth about what happen to the famous writer in the last years of his life. (I strongly suggest that you read it for yourself: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/02/opinion/02hotchner.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all )
It tells of how Hemingway was hounded by the government for trips that he took to Cuba. That Hemingway knew this, and was paranoid and depressed, and eventually ended his own life. At the time no one believed him. But because of a recent FOIA request having gone public (that's Freedom Of Information Act) the whole thing turns out to be true!
It is disturbing and alarming that our government was and is capable of harassing a man into ending his own life. That it is a tactic that they use (as you may know, Dr. Martin Luther King also received phone calls from the Feds suggesting he give up now and take his own life).
But the other thing that really bothers me about this, is that it demonstrates how commonplace this kind of repression is. That this is how our government has conducted itself since the McCarthy era, and that to this day it continues.
Tonight is the Concert/Cd release party for the Committee to Stop FBI repression, and I am really looking forward. I am going to do this poem at the show (yippie!) and its ganna be great. But I do just want to take a moment to point out how serious the situation really is. We have to spread this message far and wide (before they scrub the Internet of its existence). This cannot be allowed to continue. We need to stand up to them. The people should not be afraid of their government, the government should be afraid of its people.

blog, bloggity, blog, blog

So, I'm going back and forth about the use I want to make of this medium. I started out just posting poetry- finished works that I wanted to have a internet sort-of storage for. But also, sometimes I ramble. And sometimes I want to go off about stuff that is very important to me (which looks odd next to the silly stuff). So, I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing, but whatever.
I just wanted to share the seed I have for a new poem! I haven't really written anything new in over a year, and with all the stuff that's been going on that is a damn shame. Well, I just started something that I think is going to be my next big thing, and I wanted to share.
So here it is (more to come).


I know one thing: Art heals
That's why I write.
I write because my heart is crying out
almost all the time, but without a voice
it would go unnoticed.
I am only speaking for it
a secretary taking notes, but art,
art sheds light on the dark things we bury
and makes us grow.
It demands the best of us,
consoles us in our misery,
rejoices with us when we are happy
(really, a true friend).



Well, that's all I have so far, but I'm thankful for a new start.

The rising of the tide

Everyone I left back in FLake is drowning.
I miss their phone calls and play back the messages.
It sounds like them, but in a container
their voices calling to me from under the water
and it’s bad news.
They want me back
but I don’t go (often).
They want me to stick out my hand and grab them,
but I know better.
I know that a person will pull you in with them
to try to save themselves
push your head under water
a panicked, thrashing, hysterical behavior
I know- I used
to live there too, in the blue.
I have since curbed my altruism.

I sailed to a new shore
and destroyed the ship when I landed.
Not a conqueror, a refugee.
I made a home and learned the language.
I made some new friends and I try to live
peaceably amidst this war
and to stand up for what is right and just
and for what I believe in.
Still, I think of my family out there,
broken fingers that don’t make a hand
symptoms of this greater struggle that we are all in
against poverty, against hatred breeding hatred, and the kind of
willful ignorance that war creates, I think about
the casualties of this economy that we have all become
(the whole world paying for it) and I hope to have
some kind of impact on the next batch of us
who dream of an impossibly beautiful and bright future
for fear that we cannot even save ourselves.

A year later, standing strong

Today is September 24th 2011, and the one year anniversary of the FBI raids on the houses (and offices) of my friends and fellow activists of the anti-war committee. A lot has come to light about this investigation since, about the spy that walked among us for over two years, about the FBI's covert intervention in our work and travel, and eventually the full on assault (delivered with subpoenas and battering rams) on our rights to freedom of speech and freedom of association.

No kidding. They are calling us terrorists.

Even though we are the ones fighting and organizing against terrorism in countries like Colombia where being a union organizer is a deadly undertaking, and Palestine where collective punishment is being used to oppress an entire population. Indeed, we are the ones right here at home organizing against U.S. funded terrorism in Afghanistan and Iraq. We stand with all people of the world oppressed by their government or ours, to say that peace is the answer, and justice is the method.

But, in their book, that makes us terrorists. "A domestic threat" if you will. So be it. I am not apologetic to a system that perpetuates war just to make a profit, or that would engage in KGB-style tactics to silence dissent.

So, I wrote them a letter to this affect. I shared it today at the rally on Jess's lawn, and I thought I would share it here as well. Here is An (amended) Open Letter to the FBI

An Open Letter to the FBI

Fuck you guys.

Fuck you for Fred Hampton, I just read that they got to Hemmingway. Hell, they’ve still got Leonard Peltier. And now they’re here in the mid-west, looking for anti-war and then all the rest.

Fuck you for the 14 (wait now) 23 - no, one more 24 that you are after right now. I just wanna know how many times you have directly interfered with peace and justice in this country. I wanna know how many lives…

And I wanna talk about it. I want out stuff back- fuck- I want our spy back. She did the grunt work around here and I’ve never seen my tax dollars so well spent. I want to talk about your budget, FBI, gone unchecked since 9/11. Ten years later, and you’re tailing peace activists just to bill the time and tapping phones and raiding homes…

Looking for what? Proof that we disapprove of this government? Well, we haven’t been at all shy about that, have we? We show up. On your Capitol lawns with our signs, and our banners, and our bullhorns and we SCREAM at your buildings, from behind your police lines, I- I guess I should feel honored to have this much of your attention.

Tear gas in my eyes and all. Those plastic zip-tie handcuffs as they round us up like cattle, and now the heat is really coming down because it was never a fair battle and the Grand Jury inquisition has begun. It’s some of that good ol’fashioned McCarthyism, except now the red tag term is terrorism. Meanwhile, the real war criminals are accepting awards. Those torturers and wire tappers, patting each other’s backs at the podium.

Anyway, Fuck them.

I came here to talk to you. To ask what the hell we’re ganna do now that they’re kicking in doors in Dinkytown looking for dissenters. They’re taking down posters off the walls, calling it evidence to be used against us and you’re next if you don’t think so. Anybody left with an opinion. Anybody here consider themselves out spoken? I am talking to you.

So, here’s a quick history lesson in FBI repression.

John Lennon. They tried to deport him-did you know that?- for speaking out against the war. It was right before the Republican National Convention of 1972 and Nixon was afraid it was going to cost him re-election, so they tried to kick him out of the country for having a concert. You see? They were afraid of a concert.

Dr. Martin Luther King’s home was raided by the FBI (now we’re on to something). He received threats and harassment from them for half his Nobel Peace Prize deserving career and was in the end assassinated. I read that he was under surveillance when it happened. That under cover police watched from across the street as King was shot. But they couldn’t kill the dream he started dreaming and we are still coming, ready or not. And I do mean ready or not.

So don’t forget about the RNC of 08. You know, we’ve got a real movement in this state and in case you haven’t noticed it’s going on right now. And hold your breath for the peaceful 23 whose grand jury subpoenas are hanging over all our heads. Don’t be silent! Tell everyone you know about this! Go to stopFBI.net and get involved! Call the president. And tell him to call it off. We said end the war, AND the witch hunt, Defend the first amendment. Enough is enough. No more attacks on them and no more attacks on us.

Death of a fruit fly

It must be insane to be born.

You have, maybe 3-4 days. 6? 7?

Trapped against a screen in the window

a prison.

And the smell of food, the want of food,

the need for it, driving you.

Out of desperation, you turn back and find the table.

Here rests a glass of juice, but you don't know this

you feel it.

The smooth, cool surface of it's shell

the shape of it's mouth, a perfect circle.

To you, it seems paranormal.

You crawl inside, into its steep walled well, and at the bottom

you find -you're not sure what- but it's food!

It's made of food (and sugar too).

You rejoice!

There is so much of it!

You pull it into your mouth with your little fly hands,

you dive straight in, only to find that now you are stuck.

You suck up what you can and drowned.

And me, I just see things floating in my glass.

Play Things

Okay, so we've all had the talk
about how Barbie's not
anatomically correct

Women don't have nipple-less breasts
their legs aren't two-fold their torso
her eyes aren't the size of her fists

But we all played her as kids.
We grew up with complexes that beg the question
"why are we still pretending?" I mean,
hairless legs is one thing
what about the silicone?
Botox for that expressionless smile
The matching bra and pantie ensembles and the shoes
(ah, the shoes)

Cause everyone wants to feel pretty
don't you?

So you brush her perfect platinum blond
nylon for hair and never wonder
if Barbies feels it
or about the power she has over you

You think it too, in the back round somewhere
perfect hair
pretty shoes

busy as a bee (spring performances)

So, I'm really excited to announce that I am performing my poetry at several events this May!

To start, I am in the Poetry Cabaret at the Gremlin theater, Wed May 18th at 9pm. It's ganna be a fun show. It's a 1930s themed evening, so dress up and come out.

Then,

I am going to the AWC fundraiser party on Friday (the 20th), where we will be hosting Sara Smith (one of the subpoenaed activists in our case) and I will be doing a poem there (the Open Letter, of course)

and THEN,

I am performing at the HearSay: community open-mic and storytelling showcase! May 21st at 9pm. I am super excited about this last one, for several reasons. First of all, it's about community and it's specifically about storytelling (my passion and my specialty). Also, it's during Art-a-Whirl in NE Mpls, and that is pretty cool. I get to perform at one of the biggest art thingys in these parts. And to top it off, I was asked to perform at it quite out-of-the-blue by the editor of Twincitiesrunoff magazine (who is putting this thing on). which means I have been asked to perform at something by someone I don't even know. That is a first.

So, yeah.

I guess I am busy, busy this month (which is just the way I like it!) I am giddy looking forward to all of this stuff. I have been thinking a lot about new venues and audiences for performances, and now I have some up and coming!

creative constipation

The poem did not reveal itself to me.
Instead, I got a letter, a syllable, an unidentifiable shape of a thing
and then nothing
but a wanting
a deep ache, a frustrated inability to communicate.

It was a lump in my throat for days.
Every time I tried to say something- something else- it was there
stuttering. Every time someone would ask me how I was,
it was suffocating me,
flicking at the back of my neck with its finger.
I was considerably distracted.

The poem did not ask to be written.
It was unsympathetic to my struggling with it,
and it would not be treated like a hassle.
For something that must be- for the sake of my own life-
it would not go easy on me.

I thought 'if I can just give it time, wait it out' but no.
Pushing it away like that only made it worse.
Like a plaster cast left on too long
that itch that drives the wearer to the brink of madness
this poem would not wait for me.

So, I got shit faced and staged a break up.
I said "I've had enough!
When push comes to shove, you only want more!"
"Yes!" the poem said to me "And you will give it!"
And that was all.

I sobered up and found a pen.
I fumbled through a first draft
and then I laughed at what I'd written.
I decided to get back at it by giving the poem a silly name.

.

Summation of my last two and a half weeks

Writing with a
busted arm
feels better than
not writing



.

My Block

All the dog walkers
porch smokers
those insane joggers
that you’ll see at
all hours

around the lakes
and no matter the weather
(which is what makes them seem crazy)
but then there’s me- on the same streets
and for similar reasons

All of the seasons
the regulars, the riff-raff
and the street bums
are a walking meditation
I have come to know them well

I circle back and start over
like this is the only way I know
how to think sometimes
My block is where the sidewalk ends
My head is where I’ve kept these things
that matter

I remember, I travel the distance
over and over
I have claimed it
It is my way home

I walk this block
like the back of my hand
with my headphones in
on auto-pilot
I like it

I live here

I love it here

(Happy Holidays)

*

The

Tree was fake

And sprayed with

Some pine scent that sat

Musty on the much used bulbs

Hohohohohohohohohohohohohohoho

The electrical current running through which caused

The oil to warm until the whole plastic contraption reeked

Falalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala

Festively like a slow chemical burn, incense that come cheep

Magical memories of that Christmas tree 

O’X-mas 

O’X-mas 
Way to spoil the mood.

Eulogy for a giant (old class assignment in which I am to describe a rock)

Jupiter is dead.
In it's final throws, the planet compacted
to the size of a basket ball.
No bounce left though, no, no,
no, it shattered when it fell out of the sky.
The piece I have right from
the Titian's red eye
that infamous storm that swirls
reddest where the damage
is done most. It's deepest hues
like bruises that travel out
in layers like skin, the colors-
brick and mortar.

The smoothness of it's surface is the product of time passing over it's features with a fuzzy memory.
When I hold it in my hand all I feel is gravity.
It should be heavier. It's weight some unknown sum
GAS in the heads of scientists I've never met
but when I dropped it I heard thunder
CLAP into the corners of this mostly
vacant room.

I picked it up and mourned poor Jupiter.
One of our first gods
reduced to a throwing stone.

READ!

Cause it's good for you, like exercise
like oxygen. It's good for you like
sleeping in. And with a good book there
for when you wake
to stimulate your brain.

Read while the rest of you
stays in bed, you and your head can
go off and
see the world,
solve a crime,
learn a language (or just the ways
the one you know can be used).
Read because it enriches you.
Watch how the words
and feelings are infused.
To create an experience.
Something new.

Read. Because information is what you need.
read non-fiction and history and poetry,
read great people's auto-biographies,
read fantasies

JUST READ!

(And vote too, damn it.)

A spell to gather them

Calling all heretics, blasphemers, advocates.
Calling all heroines, witches and miscreants.
Join us in defense
of our right to dissent,
I say WAKE UP
and pay attention to this!



Get involved:
www.stopFBI.net
antiwarcommittee.org

Excavated from my smoking days

The smoke fills my mouth
enters my cavities, my lungs
full of poison. I justify the levels
of contamination by saying
"it's better than this" or "it's
better than that" like a junkie.
But it hits the spot.
A twinge in a long dead limb, a
feeling through the numbness
like a zombie.
I confess to messing around with this
but it's better than
nothing.
Living just gets long anyway,
when really it's quiet short.
We are all on our way somewhere
and this just fills the time.

Grow Tomato

Grow tomato,
grow.
Ripen red in the
sun.
Swell with summer's
heat
and become.

Gulping sunlight
sucking the
dirt dry
limbs hang thick like
loaded guns
tucked into your shoulder to
steady, you
ready,
seeds in the flesh
on a mission.

Grow tomato- you know
your time has come.
Grow until you reach
the place that
each of us
is from.

having trouble coming to

God, the mornings are the hardest part.
Those gasping, grasping, groggy mornings
(and I'm talking 11am when I say that still and it is too much)

I've never understood "morning people"
Those people that get up extra early

to go jogging or even just sit there.
I'm told it's quiet.

But I can tell you, so are those wee hours

that they miss when they are sleeping.
Yeah, I've disowned the night life too
so I guess I'm like a vampire now.
The one who doesn't sleep.

Except then I wake to near-full sun
and cough up a frog and run
out of the house to get coffee.

Those people ahead of me in line are
already on their 2nd or 3rd cup
and they are wondering
where I've been.

Love, I wanted to say to you
for sure this time
it broke my heart
that imaginary line between us
that feels everything
split up was gushing
the room flooded
the muck stayed, love
I spent weeks on my knees
scrubbing it out