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I swear, public urination is another form of street harassment. In less than 12 hours on beacon hill I’ve seen two much of this bs. I’m all for more sustainable and natural methods of processing human waste, but have some decency, respect, and (self) awareness. find a freaking bush and hide your chile or at least give it some shade. my baby girl is just trying to eat, not get a biology lesson, and I’m not trying to lose my appetite.

and another thing, me wearing a sundresses in this beautiful sol make sense, you pissing in mine and many other’s line of vision is just off sides and way outta line.

and finally, I am not going to listen to any more bs about women breastFEEDING the next generation while I got to dodge drive-by man teets and pissing dicks for the rest of mi vida.






Ronald Reagan pretty much ruined everything for millennials.

fuckin’ ronnie

I try and bring up how he ruined free in state tuition in the name of hippie bashing when he was California’s governor often, but don’t exactly have the biggest platform.

"Worst of all, these students’ sense of the future is constrained by planning for and then paying down their student loans, often for decades. Economists are waking up to the fact that when young Americans enter the workforce burdened with over a trillion dollars in cumulative debt, they become risk averse, unwilling to move, less able to make major purchases, and slower to become homeowners. Not coincidentally, they don’t feel safe enough to register any major protests against the society that’s done this to them.”



Jason deCaires Taylor (English, b. 1974)

- Resurrection. Underwater sculpture that incorporates Gorgonian fan coral, off the shores of Cancun, Mexico, 2009.

- Sculpture in Moliniere Underwater Sculpture Park, Grenada, West Indies, 2006.

- La Diablesse in Moliniere Underwater Sculpture Park, Grenada, West Indies, 2006.


i am up early with the birds
sleepy stumbleweed read through Wildseed
next to an angel tossing and snuggling in her sleep
una taza de manzanilla tea
day-dreaming our future
a way
laundry tumbling warmth en el fondo
only a few
dishes in the sink
a cool dark emptiness
toys and libros like confetti after a ticker tape parade
we are all veteran@s of something
house hunting while all ways home coming
i am all ways taking off
steep drops
tail hooks
touching down but never landing
pero yo no soy mariner@
soy capitan
and so is she
plotting new journeys
testing our wings

flor de maiz

we were and are still
merely seeds
falling and breaking
reforming and rising up
and in moments sudden
like immaculate conceptions
over and over
we go
in mine’s and mind’s eye
to mouth
ojo a boca
dientes y lengua
flutter buzz
burning fire
blistering heat
both in and to
buttery sweet
elote like a pop song
no populus, we can never again
be tall and proud corn
unless you could count
colonel by colonel
this genetically modified cult-of-our cultivar
tweaked twerked tired and over worked
empty homage to bodies in hue bone and tone of mother earth
she does not be long to US
great suicide pretender of wild seed
why are you all knot
living the remembrance
of words worn thin
and long ago
like stalk with no ears
that grew heavy
and barren
from not being sung to
only slashed bought and sold
purple red white black and rainbow turned to gold
we are all
and all are still
flor de maiz
kernel by kernel truth
both planting and exploding

do my intersections make you uncomfortable?
you’ll find me building somewhere on the corner of Yes and No
though not every body stops to notice,
because generally the roundabouts work just fine…
and then there are other times,
where you need to stop,
look and listen carefully,
and get clear
before you take a turn or move forward
and trust that you’ve got what it takes to make it home,


Galaxy Coast
— Bill Shupp // Flickr

Taken near Bixby Bridge north of Big Sur, CA, this is a 12 shot vertical panorama taken around 4 am this past Monday, when the Milky Way was pretty high in the sky. The glow near the horizon is a lighthouse just around the bend.

All shots are 20 seconds, except the bottom one, which is 3 minutes

in my nature

if this earth quakes
i know her fault lines fun far and deep
i know her waterfalls run and weep
churning up what has long been settled upon and pounded
into the finest truth
to wash us clean
i know how she spins to both resist and roll with gravity
i know the light and dark of her pull and need
like i know the steady motion and depth of her seas
i know every root and tendrils tenacity
at it’s most tender tip
and the life that bursts from delicate petals and lips
in even the most gentle breeze
i am madrona photosynthesizing as a natural process of surviving

moore on this later…

this is me sifting
search and rescuing
for support, assistance, and relief
for self and all in need
which when you think about it, is really every body
this is me sifting
like sourdoughs and forty-niners for gold n’ signs (of life) and survivors
when weather systems and conditions crash spin and collide
down hard and fast on the ground from up high in skies
nomenclature disaster of nature
i am aching to find an antonym or answer
for the that is natural disaster
but we chase storms like it’s some kind of hell we after
we build sky scrapers, levies, and dams like we masters
      and when the dust settles and clears
we rebuild faulty foundations
where strong winds are proven to spin faster
despite math, science, and laughter
      because we should know better by now
we disregard and forget inevitably
the paths blazed in our own natural history
testing the strength and very limits
of the whole and very fiber of our humanity
and who are we to own and test such delicate things
the very existence of whole species
made and unmade by mother, nature and rendered extinct
ashes to ashes and dust to dust
we are buried
we rise up
while still calling the phoenix make believe
we keep on fracking, drilling, tapping, diverting, and trapping,
pumping and dumping
and setting fire to our very own wings
while kids dust bowls and click heals overhear in the emerald city
          like the ceiling can’t hold us…
but not too much goin’ ‘round about Oklahoma and it’s deafening
while lives snap, spin, and splinter
and electric poles get twisted by massive steel beams
        over           there           in the dust bowl             in OKC
its elementary
its just another story on the internet and tv
but it’s only four blocks away from my family
i mean, it’s only just down the street
good thing my cousin’s in the business of constructing things
but then i wonder about the we’re making
off of rebuilding unsustainably
and right now i am dorothy trying to find the inner wiz and good witch in me
working from home with four walls, a floor, light rain, and a sturdy door,
and a healthy baby soundly sleeping and dreaming
and write now though sure to pay for it eventually
i am technically but barely goldbricking      
while hoping that you are still following
as i am still sifting and seeking,
some times frantic but mostly urgently,
for some sort of sign, lesson, or reckoning
wondering about the wreckage from when systems and conditions collide in me
my people
      what ever that means
and the rest of society
prone to crashing and top down heirarchies
with such force and gravity
buried in rubble trouble wishes whistles shouts and wastelands
i am raw, extended, helping, holding, arms and hands
i am persistent yet inaudible heartbeats
aching, breaking, loving, far beneath

…they said it was in his nature
when my friend died of a heart attack last week

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)
just another

just gimme a second
no, first i’m gonna take a moment
to catch my breath
we need to glorify life instead of violence fear and death
i’m just another mother inside the struggle trying to make tetris outta rubble
and “we don’t neeeeeeeed, no more trouble”
and i don’t mean to burst your bubble
but i need to stick to the point and get the hell up outta this joint
so i can get back to the nest
lay my wings to rest
and take shelter
in the fact that i just be and give it from boca to belly to breast
till there is so very little left
and i am speaking pigeon
to any wise owl who, who, who will listen
and understand
all of the wonder dripping inside each lyrlcally broken sentence
and i’m not all ways sure
how these things ought to end
when we are only just beginning
to re.member what it is to fly.

dis jockeys

press her mounts like polo jockey on mustang’s bucking back
entitled emblazoned emboldened
little men who ride too hard and too fast
lashing blinded equine beauty and beast into frenzied hierarchy between tightly squeezed knees
press her mounts steeds
into gelatin and glue and other tacky endings
buy products of US
colonialism imperialism capitalism sexism specism, supremacy
press her mounts steadily
one trips
we all fall down
shit can get deadly
and its highly addicting
something about the thrill of the whole thing
little men behaving badly
just another day at the races
go big or go home
at the pop of a gun
we run hard
fast till we broken
running circles round and round
till we all fall down