Category: resistance
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my resistances arise
through the day
in the wayI see
the trees leafthe roses bud
and bloom onlyto let go
their petalsto the ground
and hereas well as there
in the streetsfilled with anger
is a beautyand a love
which must be heldwith all our arms
and namedwith all our voices
no matter how smallor fleeting
we feel our heartsto be
no matter the terrorslithering nearby
laugh as wellas mourn
sing as wellas scream
see morethan is allowed
see what we weresee what we are
and see whatwe can become
(April 29, 2026)
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to fill the soft holes
the auspices
have left behind
for our memory
like tattered tarot cards
to make sense of
for our past to exist
in this present
dénouement
which of course
our future will
ignore as blasé
as conventional wisdom
bangs out a beat
on a tattered drum
we must insist
like the birds
how this story goes
(October 16, 2025)
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the police break down doors
the wrong doors the wrong people
but in other states other cities
I try to be optimistic
the world has been worsethe terror the killing fields treblinka
just not so close not so near to me
I try to be optimistic
the streets are not slick with bloodskulls are not stacked on skulls
fresh ash does not fill our lungs
I try to be optimistic
the sun rises over stone hengeas it has for millennia
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Finished the RFB book for this upcoming Sunday’s meeting. A fairly long (161 pages, seemed longer) rant from the point of view of a working class bloke (oppressed like Caliban in The Tempest by powers greater than him). Each chapter focuses on another aspect of his oppression.The main take away is the old adage: the more things change the more they stay the same. The powers that be (church, military, education, government, labor unions, etc) all contribute, if not conspire, to exploit, control, and oppress the working class. Much of what he shrieked about is pretty much still in play in our contemporary politics. So, it was not that I disagree with most of what he screams about, i simply found the writing to be over-wrought and turgid. The book cover claims it is a rediscovered classic. I am not sure a book can be called a classic if it had to be rediscovered. Isn’t a classic— a book that people have continued to read over the years? Not one, forgotten and unread, that some editor found in a book stall, then reprinted. But I quibble.
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“What shall I say, because talk I must?”
-William Carlos Williams
Perhaps if I gnaw
off my tongue,
I could drown
in unvoiced blood.
I have no insight,
no words as balm
beyond my silence.
It’s easier, safer,
to be polite
to watch the end
and say nothing.
I am dumb-founded,
when I should scream
against all decorum.
(April 5, 2025)
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I have always been slow, too slow to see
beyond the eddy to the sea, too slow
to piece together the mundane violence.
So many waves to obliviouslywatch as they slowly wash away the shore;
my mind turns away from soft increments.
Each new thought is an act of violenceagainst reality, against stasis,
toward an affirmation of consciousness.
It’s easy to believe in permanencewhen the present seems so solidly here,
while yesterday clings like drowning sailors
pulling me beneath the surface of time,until my words are swallowed like small fish
to feed an oppressive leviathan.
(March 28, 2024) -
If you can
If you must
Drink from this cup
Without dying
Without speaking
With a different accent
Without speaking
Of other things
Other lives
Your life for instance
Then you canThen you must
Walk among us
Without fear
Of the apostate
That nod of the head
That short suppressed laugh
That quick glance of recognition
In some other’s shaded eye
Before looking again at the ground
Lest you expose some other
Thought some other
Older deeper truth
That is yours alone
(October 10, 2023)
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The light fades again
across the mountains
outside the window
above his desk
where he reads
the old masters.
He looks up,
then, as if struck by a sword,
he furrows his brow.
But now is not the time
for blood to rain from heaven:
the war, as before, continues
unabated and unnoticed.
If he is to find purity’s root
within his world’s manifest divisions,
he must leave his comfortable chair
and charge into the heart of his war.
This must be done, again
and again, with an iron heart,
until he can laugh again;
and, the earth absorbs
the spilled wine
as if it were an apology
offered too late to a god.
(June 12, 2022)
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All these rituals—
incense and prayer!
You speak too muchwith too many words.
I spit; the sour tasteclings to my teeth.
(April 29, 2022)
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certainty’s a razor’s edge
pressed lightly across skin
i draw a line alongthe length of my arm
tracing a blue veina way in a way out
(May 4, 2021)
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the turn was not a turn
you saw with my eyes
I blinked it vanished
she said no it wasnot as you said
the way I knew it to be
the ragged lines spokewith stranger accents
skewed cognates
the way was onlythe way here
the sole path here
the sky clearedthe sky stormed
the rain was dry
the way here wasthe only way here
only me here now
I only knowthis language
the words come to me
by birthby chance
by god
she said yes butnot as you said
only what I said
it was the wayI knew the way
the way I said
(May 3, 2021)
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tension slips between
skin and flesh
as skillful as a fishmonger’s
blade slices down
the length of an eel
with one stroke
a practiced motion
without thought
like a priest at prayer
each wooden bead rolled
over fingertips in sync
with the slow muttered vowels
one patterned moment
moving toward the next
with endless patience
as the next ritual waits
for the candle to be lit
the words to flow
less with meaning
than as a balm
to still disquiet
(April 14, 2021)
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from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
To be there. To bear witness:
one tells one’s story— That’s all!
That is how evil falls— Again
and again— tell one’s story.
(June 5, 2019)
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from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
A door blows open;
I wake to a storm.
A familiar room whirls
in disarray. Fear dares
for someone to speak.
(May 17, 2019)
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