It was the first time that anyone on Earth, Including herself, Had ever heard the sounds Of all the comets in the universe, Past Present And future.
Pamela Ramsey Taylor will soon be back at her desk.
But somehow you keep on going Creating such illegal sacred spaces While we worry about the inevitable
I smile. I sing. I babysit. My words bolster the weak. To the lost, I point the way. To the infirm I tell jokes like the one about the albino polar bear who walks into a bar. The bartender says, “What’ll it be, Redeye?” For this am I honored and for honor we live. Another…
... Shaking our voices to heated sentences that stretch in their continuous testament.
What is her home country? Or is she a traveling soul? A wandering Sufi? An escaped soldier? An absconded convict?
Under the law twelve and thirteen year olds are permitted to do light work up to forty-two hours a week.
By Jan Steckel. The scene of an Oakland warehouse set for fire, while the musicians play on.
The rivers, the mountains, the forests Are to which we belong We ever belonged Until they came along With high advanced machinery Trucks laden with artillery State sponsored police thievery To lay claim On all of this Through breaking, distorting laws And other tricks Under the guise of ‘development’ That we are irreverent, so…
Under his fist he holds the power of history. Less than half of all the arms raised were for him.