Becky

she insisted we roll the car windows down
while the a/c was cranking
and she just kept it cranking

in her mid 90s silvery Saturn sedan,
second-hand from her parents,
three little boys crammed in the back seat
a baby girl not yet in her belly,
as we drove down the Kennedy, then the Dan Ryan, heading to the Skyway
for our weekly day-trip
to the southwest Michigan coast

our cooler stuffed with tarragon chicken salad sandwiches for us, fried chicken drumsticks for them, at least two pounds of black cherries, pickles, diet cokes, limes, and capri-suns — the box of white cheddar cheez-its hardly ever made it all the way to the Warren Dunes on the ride from Chicago

for the Lake, the beach, the inlet hike to the clay pit,
the Dune climb, always hoping for some gentle, yellow-flag waves, and the long, eastern time-zone Sun’set over platinum blue water

perplexed, delighted by this novelness, by her unconvention:

a/c on our skin — and summer air blowing in our hair?

Continue reading “Becky”

institutional knowledge

another part of mourning, an enduring part of mourning:

the loss of the “institutional knowledge” of you that they alone held, documented and archived;

when

a life-long, childhood or early adulthood friend

a beloved mother, or grandmother, or father,

a harmonious sibling, a close cousin

a long-time lover,

a partner in a long marriage, officiated — or not

a child whom you birthed or raised and who may have also birthed or raised you, have mercy.

when, those relationships become one-sided through death — or other endings,

not only are they gone,

Continue reading “institutional knowledge”

Penny


an experimental poem derived
in automatic writing beyond the midnight

work steals away the days
and i miss my laziness.

i do not miss my ignorance.
i do miss my trust – my rarest treasure –
i used it all up: a life-time supply gone —

just like that!


my realism’s been distilled into a cynicism; a bitterness no syrup in the spoon can mitigate; i swallow it down.


i have a trust investment advisor now.
they tell me who to invest in, with and for:

no one?

i do miss my strong body
and his;
how it can all go to shit in an instant
how it does all go to shit in an instant:
liar. cheater. embezzler. addict. gambler.
drunk driver, ladder, mass shooter, assault, tick, cancer.

a penny for my thoughts?

— can you afford that?

my thoughts, a penny each — i am feeling generous, and extend you a discount.


so you want to be rich?

or, you want me to be poor?

i will deposit my thoughts in you,
i will spend my thoughts on you,

and you, we, love,
will be so full, so wealthy.
you, we, will never go hungry /or thirsty/
or be too cold, ever
or too hot – except intentionally

i, we, will go for broke, but not break
or, rather, let’s not break at the same time, honey;
i can go first.
no, you.

eat and drink my thoughts, and i yours.

but my pleasure is in your dessert.

i am a mouthful – a mouth-full.

Continue reading “Penny”

hush


Israel Is A Rogue Terrorist Entity

Israel is a rogue terrorist entity. And it’s coming to a municipality near you by way of dozens of militarized cop cities — pigs trained by the IDF and Unit 8200 — empowered by algorithms and AI analyses — and the never-expiring, always-expanding Patriot Act.
So, you think you’re safe because you’re not in a paramilitary; because you’re a good type of “citizen”?
maybe you think you’ll go abroad, become an ex-pat?
but where to go, American Pariah?
you think you’re safe because
you’re not in the resistance? (yet)
you’re not an activist — against genocide? against environmental and climate destruction? against systemic injustice? (yet, yet, yet)
you’re not hungry or thirsty or homeless? (yet)
your loved one hasn’t been brutalized or executed by police or the national guard? (yet)

We are living in a

Philip K. Dick-ian World.


Continue reading “hush”

a reader’s digest *almost-worthy* story

as i sit here on my deck on a beautiful, late August, Sunday morning in rural southwest Michigan reading an article about surviving a bear attack at Signal Mountain in Yellowstone in May 2024,

i am reminded that

one of my very favorite things as a kid was to visit my great grandmother and to sit in her rocking and folding lawn chair, all by myself on the tiny porch — of her modest, peach-colored stucco bungalow at 2229 West Oakdale Avenue in Chicago — because we didn’t have a porch, only a stoop at CHA’s Julia C. Lathrop Homes where i lived as a child (privacy, peace and quiet were rare there) and comb through her Reader’s Digest magazine collection for stories of wilderness experiences and encounters with wildlife — especially the ones with predators: sometimes, not everyone survived in those excerpted stories /

but the intense desire to experience the outdoors that those stories inspired in me was almost entirely extinguished when i went, *with zero experience* on a three day/two night camping-canoe trip along the Fox River for our 8th grade class graduation trip; me and another 13 year-old female classmate were paired together in a canoe in a group of 5-6 canoes / i went [un]prepared with a borrowed, indoor Barbie slumber party sleeping bag from one friend and my best friend Jill’s dad’s old army reservist mess kit — everything stuffed into a single, tripled black garbage bag to keep my “gear” dry in case we tipped and went into the water/ Jill couldn’t go herself because that winter she was suddenly stricken with Raynaud’s Syndrome and was quite sick from another, yet-undiagnosed autoimmune disease /

my classmates and i slept outside on the ground without a tent and woke covered dew and very cold both mornings (while the adults occupied two very dry and warm pup tents) // we peed (and presumably, some of us also pooped) into holes dug in the ground within earshot of our 13 & 14 year old [boy] classmates and male teachers // the only other girl on the trip got her period the first night and had to use a sock as a menstrual pad because none of the male teachers thought to come prepared in event for that routine bodily function — and apparently, none of our mothers suggested this to us or to them — or planned for it either //

around the campfire the first night, which was a Friday, our teachers told us in a very serious manner that the camp in the film Friday the 13th — “Camp Crystal Lake” — was actually based on a true story at nearby youth camp— we had, in fact, passed a road sign for “Crystal Lake” en route; while, i had not yet seen the film — but the others filled me in in great detail — and it no longer felt good or safe to be on the trip with them — even after the teachers’ retractions and promises that they were “just joking”.

Continue reading “a reader’s digest *almost-worthy* story”

Shepard Fairey is back on his bullshit

“Question Everything,”

then Obey!
fool me once, mfer.

This past Spring, I saw a Shepard Fairey exhibit at the local art museum: Shepard Fairey: Facing The Giant: 3 Decades Of Dissent.


fwiw: admission to the Krasl Art Center is free.
I didn’t pay to enter the exhibit.

Shepard Fairey no doubt has a seminal presence in street art — that is, art in public space — in sticker culture, in wheatpaste postering and in muralism. But, he’s also problematic as fuck — problematic to “fair use”, to social movements — and to art itself. I want to be more precise and say: he has an ejaculative presence in art in public space: his stuff is ubiquitously and frequently splattered — and sticky in the public consciousness — like a true Mad Men, note Ad men and marketers and PR consultants are not artists: they are not even tricksters — they are influencers, marketeers, cons, liars and grifters.

Fairey perhaps most famously helped to elevate Barack Obama’s first presidential campaign with his iconographic HOPE image — Fairey, (perhaps) like tens of millions of us, including myself, bought into Obama’s community organizer/activist history and “hope and change” schtick back in 2008. The shame and pain of decades of systemic, racialized disenfranchisement and inequity were transformed into an incredible electoral energy that was earnestly and hopefully deposited into Obama’s candidacy and presidency; it was then almost immediately disregarded and wasted — and ultimately, profoundly regretted by progressives. Only after his first term was nearly complete did “we” learn and process that Obama was a neo-liberal capitalist centrist cloaked in folksy voice and progressive-populist clothing — we witnessed him betray us again and again — and become a prolific drone-strike-executioner-in-chief as well as Wall Street’s and Rahm Emanuel’s punk-ass bitch.

I want to be more precise and say: he has an ejaculative presence in art in public space: his stuff is ubiquitously and frequently splattered — and sticky in the public consciousness.

The Obama HOPE image stands as a reminder and a joke of hope placed in any Democrat or Republican politician — any. Thank you for that, truly, Shepard Fairey.

But, some among us may still not know — that Fairey had misappropriated the photograph on which the iconic Obama HOPE poster was based, without credit or compensation to the copyright holder — falsely citing “fair use” — Fairey subsequently destroyed evidence about the actual unfairness of his use which amounted to theft, fraud and obstruction. Fairey settled with the copyright owner and also plead guilty for contempt of court.

Fairey has also reproduced and exhibited images of actual, bonafide Black power and liberation icons (Angela Davis notwithstanding) — and has been rightly interrogated about his cultural appropriation. On the surface, his work may pass as homage to great People and powerful movements, but it can also be interpreted as an artistic “black face” — and as an attempt to co-opt that which is not his in order to elevate his own vanilla, half-woke vibe — and of course, to cash-in. He remains defiant in his approach to cultural appropriation.



Continue reading “Shepard Fairey is back on his bullshit”

the apple pickers

when the Sun reaches the precise height
above horizon,
then arrive the tawny-bodied apple pickers and gleaners/
stilts for legs,
i count twenty limbs in tree camouflage/
bypassing the bushel and the sack
the bounty of fruit down into their bellies //

ears like SETI,
searching for sounds of hoof-less life — canine or primate in the universe
and also, for movement of my unseen, yet intense presence —my breath and pulse slowed, just above, just beyond them —

but i am not in a tree stand/ i brandish no shotgun, no ray gun ///

how rare, these ones are among us,

— among we Earthlings :

silent, gentle and elegant ///

they linger in the morning gold as it stretches West to the lake and evaporates too quick into its blues/

i linger in the dark cool of the open bedroom window, facing North

my senses also honed — and sated//

on this eve of August’s ides,

autumn has not trespassed on the summer,
but was intentionally summoned ///


apple-picker in the morning
on the eve of
August’s ides
2024

tenuous

it may feel

tenuous

so much of this seems predicated on phantom 1s, zeroes, grids & presidents

remember what is true, what is real

a deer ambling into the bramble of an overgrown blueberry patch
at last light
a trail of fireflies sparkling behind her like a golden bridal veil

there are deer, there are fireflies, there are blueberries, still

children around your table, grandchildren or a dog underfoot
cotton and wool
flint, boots,
a cache of seeds, oils, a pantry full of grains and beans, bundles of dried herbs, a cellar of roots
a deep well, a spring, or a stream and some vessels
steel, wood, stone, charcoal
pictographs, petroglyphs

cell-deep stories

strings, drums, flutes

a few poems — memorized, recited, improvised

hands near your own as you
birthe, work, live, fight, grieve, survive — and then die

and right now, in this exact moment

Continue reading “tenuous”

imprint

be careful,
some, caution:

there’s risk
they may imprint on you
and never fledge

be careful,
i, caution:

there’s risk
i may imprint on you
you may imprint on me

and one day, we will know
severed skies / severed from each other

you will fly, and, i will stay

yet, we will never fully-fledge
from
the acute nourishment, the acute hunger

from the enduring gravity

of
each other

Continue reading “imprint”

proof of life | awkward family fotos


a suspension

of borrowed time & life


recipe and method for feeding a baby starling

recipe:

one-half of a medium-boiled large egg, super finely diced

3-4 sardines canned in water, with all the bones and skin, gingerly rinsed under a thin stream of tap water, to remove excess salt, laid atop a paper towel
to passively drain the water,
then, finely chopped

mash sardines and egg together,
then slowly add up to 1 teaspoon of unsweetened organic apple sauce,

the mash should be integrated and mostly smooth
but not too wet or runny


store in sealed glass container refrigerated for no more than 2.5 days

(increase to whole boiled egg and full can of sardines and extra applesauce — and increase mash chunkiness as bird grows)

to feed:

fill a plastic drinking straw with the food,
by pumping the straw up and down into the mash with suction

warm the filled straw in hand while wearing a disposable glove to bring the mash close to room temperature

gently but quickly eject tubes/ribbons of mash into baby bird’s mouth as she gapes for food - like toothpaste on toothbrush almost; it’s daunting at first; she is so demanding! so loud! so urgent!
so hungry!

she will stop gaping when full

wash straw and reuse
(DQ & Five Guys straws are wide, flexible and work best)

repeat feeding every half hour, then eventually every hour or so, about 300 times over the course of next three weeks

to thrive:

during that time create and whistle to her a short, 3-4 note, unique song to recognize your voice

love her, talk to her,
encourage her, comfort her,
and hold her, carry her outside to see the world she will soon enter

also during that time: bring her small worms, slugs and insects to taste and/or eat / you will need to manually reduce them to be digestible for her, at first

then teach her to forage and hunt for them herself; she will use her beak as a shovel to unearth them and poke at and sever them with her beak
;
watch her back while she’s busy doing this - be her wingman!

she will teach herself to bathe and sun, fluff, dry and preen


one day she will hop, sputter-fly into the grass, into the garden; into the bramble or tall grasses

then, she will fly and soar - high into the trees, beyond your reach, sight or protection

you will worry about predators and bird bullies, weather, machines, injury and hunger


you will listen for her voice
and whistle and call for her

sometimes you will hear her;
but she will always hear you; she knows your face, form, voice and song

she will still come home for supplemental feeding


she will still come home to sleep in her nest box inside the barn overnight because being a baby bird alone in the world - is exhausting

being a mother bird, even moreso

she will come back, again and again.


she is just pure joy.
she is pure trust.

you are so lucky to have experienced her first weeks of life

you rescued her; but she has restored you, in fact.

please know,

always remember, and never forget:

every bird you see, every wild mammal you see, they all initially survived because of a very devoted mother

Continue reading “proof of life | awkward family fotos”

Sylvia Dickinson Edgar Anne Hughes


Star — the starling, on the evening of July 7, 2024

every poet should know the company of a wild bird, at least once

i recently binged the biography:

“The Occult Sylvia Plath: The Hidden Spiritual Life of the Visionary Poet” by life-long Plath scholar Julia Gordon-Bramer

i feel fortunate this book was my introduction to Plath and her poet husband, Ted Hughes— and other significant influences in her life and poetry /

hat tip to my long-time favorite podcast: Aeon Byte Gnostic Radio — created and hosted by Miguel Conner at The Virtual Alexandria for interviewing Gordon-Bramer, because, for the first time ever, i was actually interested in Plath — and furthermore, i unexpectedly experienced a psychic “something” with Plath while listening to the audiobook; this “something” — i want to digest, explore – and possibly explain, in detail, in a future essay //


The Occult Sylvia Plath: The Hidden Spiritual Life of the Visionary Poet

Julia Gordon-Bramer

while i imbibed this book, i was simultaneously raising an injured and orphaned starling nestling — on an intensive feeding schedule — and during this time, i learned from the book, that Sylvia and Ted also attempted to rescue an injured and sick baby bird — but after a week, and upon determining rehabilitation was futile, they jointly and sadly euthanized the bird in their gas oven (i know. wow.) ///

Continue reading “Sylvia Dickinson Edgar Anne Hughes”