
Category: poet
slouching toward bethlehem
i resist stirring, opening my eyes, or thinking
as the dog wakes, and waits
i am in the center of another dawn-dream,
on the precipice of
experiencing some thing, of understanding some thing
but it cannot hold,
evaporating
with every
slouch toward consciousness
i open my eyes to
the grey of the room, to the dark white gyre of the sky through these generous windows
i open my ears
to the beat
of crystals pummeling these generous windows,
once and again, realizing
i possess slow thighs,
heavy lungs, a heavier heart,
an entire weighted mass,
and a mind — less than half-known / half-known
i want to re-bury myself in the warm sands of sleep, the enveloping weightless numb
and drift back to
the liminal/
this must be the
feeling
of the fully-gestated
unborn fetus, warm,
quiet, still
waiting to be born
yet resisting being known, moving on
HOW DID CRAZY HORSE VOTE ? — Joffre Stewart

HOW DID CRAZY HORSE VOTE? vers. 2024
a posthumous collab with Joffre Stewart, most respectfully & reverently
Which party would be better for Israel?
Red or Blue?
Trick Question!
Both, that’s who!
Which party would be better for The People?
Red or Blue?
Trick Question!
Both, hate you!
Did CRAZY HORSE vote his Lakota People out of Dispossession and Genocide?
Did BLACK PEOPLE vote themselves out of Enslavement and American Apartheid?
Did WOMEN vote themselves IRREVOCABLE Equal and Reproductive Rights?
Have the SOLUTIONS to human dispossession, oppression ever been secured at the polls
with votes of RED or BLUE?
LISTEN:
REVOLUTION has been the ONLY DURABLE AMERICAN SOLUTION.
Yet, childlike, playing at history,
& with the future
You color some ovals, You check a box,
And, deny this
TRUTH.
Continue reading “HOW DID CRAZY HORSE VOTE ? — Joffre Stewart”phenology II
lilacs re-leaf, re-bloom
in October
hummingbird moths feed,

— not cultivars —
in unprecedented re-leaf and re-bloom
October 12, 2024
and simultaneously,
She’s un-be-coming a human be-ing
She’s destined to,
we’re destined to, too
no
need to
tell me, explain
what’s happening
as constant witness,
as constant, remote witness to slaughter,
as constant gardener,
as constant tender,
as constant daughter,
i see.
i recognize.
i know,
Continue reading “phenology II”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”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

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 //

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”the reincarnation of sylvia plath
this was the summer of
broken limbs on trees, animals — and men
this was the summer of
the fuck-it, no-good vegetable garden
this was the summer of
“not this year”, “but, maybe next,” — again
this was the summer of
the i-still-can’t-believe-she’s-dead birthday
this was the summer of
nesting swallows, wicked sparrows, and a fallen starling nestling, whom she fed, and kept in her pocket for future starlight
this was the summer of
hanging baskets heavy with rainbow gazanias and pots full of midnight black petunias — for balance — incessant dead-heading and concrete stains, a small price
this was the summer of
the blue serpent; of serpentine bracelets and of the serpent-printed dress — she to be photographed on this land with the flowers, the dog and the bird, like Frida
this was the summer of
first-realizing she may be the reincarnation of the spirit once-embodied in
Sylvia Plath

photo: Eric Stahlberg, 1954
sonlight [june 2024]
what radiance i’ve possessed in your eyes
has naturally dimmed after these 30 years;
and so has yours — in mine, these last five,
if i am being truthful,
which you know me to be,
guttingly
once the solar star, now, a mere lighthouse on the other’s shore,
do you still wonder what you are?
you,
my sonlight, are still golden, burning hot and bright,
but these blue lenses of ours,
and these blue talks of ours,
reveal
we are animal, elemental,
sometimes too human, and fragile.
only, you fail to acknowledge another possibility, another cosmic continuum.
Continue reading “sonlight [june 2024]”she talks to serpents
says they call her out by her name

the author’s window
Continue reading “she talks to serpents”
Poetry vs. Poems
for [US] National Poetry Month
April 2024
many people write poems,
maybe even some good ones, maybe even a great one
but others,
they
speak in poetry
cry in poetry
illuminate in poetry
lust in poetry
revere in poetry
rage in poetry
survive in poetry
mother in poetry
love in poetry
critique in poetry
dance in poetry
inform in poetry
grieve in poetry
wonder in poetry
assassinate in poetry
expose in poetry
imagine in poetry
rebuke in poetry
teach in poetry
confess in poetry
resist in poetry
observe in poetry
exalt in poetry
mock in poetry
grow in poetry
die in poetry
&
live, and live, and live in poetry
these latter are the poets,
metaphor, verse, and prose
entangled
in every thought, in every experience, in every act, in every feeling, in every expression,
inseparable as breath and air,
whether ever read
whether ever recognized
whether ever published
whether ever paid
whether they ever write one poem deemed good by anyone — even themself
poetry
is
the breath
and blood
and milk
and spit
and piss
and cum
and tears
and wine
and water
and ink
and words
in which
poets
swim
not casually,
but as habitat.
Continue reading “Poetry vs. Poems”
F R e E P a L e sT I nE
Truly, one of the greatest evocative and provocative living contemporary artists, Survivance/resistance/futurist writers, and performance poets,
Diné artist Demian DinéYazhi’ ingeniously embedded “Free Palestine” in the flickering letters of their powerful, poemic-neon artwork at the Whitney Museum’s Whitney Biennial
we must stop imagining destruction + extraction + deforestation + cages + torture + displacement + surveillance + genocide!
we must stop predicting apocalypses + fascist governments + capitalist hierarchies!
we must pursue + predict + imagine routes toward liberation!
~ Demian DinéYazhi’
poemic-neon artwork: “we must stop imagining apocalypse/genocide + we must imagine liberation.”

photo by: Nora Gomez-Strauss

photo by: Nick Mathews

photo by: Field Kallop
the institution & curators were unaware;
yet “Free Palestine”
was intermittently revealed for those with the patience to observe the piece
the entire artwork faces out toward the Hudson River for all to see:
Continue reading “F R e E P a L e sT I nE”definition | author | proof of life:
foremost Earthling, crone,
and mother to a golden boy;
nightly traveler into liminality;
mostly obeisant
to intuition & premonition;
poet, writer;
heart-sleeved,
bleeding heart pessimist;
devoted friend of crows (at last),
meadow-restorer/tender,
& long-lost sister to snakes, bats and coyotes,
deer & bluebird whisperer,
seed saver, food grower,
an admirer and propagator
of lilacs, hydrangeas,
sycamores, mulberries, pawpaws and oaks;
dna-tested kin to goldenrod, milkweed,
bison, cottonwoods, thistle and monarchs;
wader into ephemeral and glacial
lakes and deep snow;
Moon’s luminous, loyal daughter
& Sun’s prodigal, ever-questioning shadow
equally;
devout, ecstatic
desert, forest and river worshipper;
reverent of and humbly deferent to
bear, wolf, moose, elk & bighorn sheep and hummingbirds;
a mountain, canyon, valley,
prairie and beach walker;
i swam and swam and swam my way alive.
free palestine: “SHALOM not [A] napalm BOMB”
“SHALOM not [A] napalm BOMB”

Chicago
poet, outsider artist,
street philosopher & pamphleteer,
anti-political theorist & activist,
anti-zionist,
war-and-tax-resister
&
pacifist-anarchist
June 1994
“No state exists by right, they come to exist by force, and then justify their existence after the fact.”
- Geo Maher
