It was by their song and talk we knew when to rise when to look out the window to the commotion going on— the magnetic field thrown off by grief.
Lately, to escape the news, I've been watching films about swindlers and con men but I'm repeatedly roughed up in the strategies and actions,
In the cell of else / in the pitch-white someone’s hands shackled between ankles in the nights & sunny days keeping the clouds shaking the rib cage & no way
By Luna Reiley. A good guy gives us pretty sweet God / speed on this desperately anticipated / release, finally we have the future and / on Spotify it's free.
Q: I can’t get over him, he rings regret in my mosquito ear he red ring circling my knee Lyme’s disease he buzz lullaby malaria fly he is the beautiful death zika kiss he is the end and I’m still starting please help A: aren’t you fucking lucky! you must get mad. produce work.…
Here's how we can build that wall of Donald Trump's. That wall of mirrors.
I study Henry Louis Gates' essay, “Proving Black History Matters” Which ends with a long quote from James Baldwin.
A poet is interviewed in Oakland after local police agencies abuse and sexually traffick a teen girl, seemingly without consequence.
He’s running for president. He’s washing your windows and shining your shoes. He’s standing in the tortilla line right next to you.
In solidarity with Standing Rock Sioux Tribe and all peoples protecting the waters of this earth.