WATER IS THE NEW PRECEDENT – UPDATE

WATER IS THE NEW PRECEDENT – UPDATE
Read more about the collection here: http://bit.ly/TheNewPrecedent

It’s been a year since I wrote these essays while at SR, and the fight has only continued to expand since then. I just contributed $50 to Makwa Initiative – Line 3 Frontline Resistance from last month’s book proceeds. Based in Minnesota, the protectors there are preparing for a cold winter camped out to Stop Line 3, a pipeline set to be built through Anishinaabe sovereign territory at the Mississippi River headwaters. Contributions will help them weatherize camp and afford other supplies to safely protect their sacred waters and wild rice harvests for future generations.

Thank you to everyone who has grabbed a copy of WATER IS THE NEW PRECEDENT in person or online! For weeks, I have been reliving my memories of North Dakota from last year, and it is my honor to share the hope and prayers I found there in these essays, so that the movement continues to spread to every corner of Turtle Island and beyond.

You can read about the collection and grab a copy here: http://bit.ly/TheNewPrecedent

Otherwise, please donate directly to #StopLine3 here: http://www.youcaring.com/makwacampsupplies

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WATER IS THE NEW PRECEDENT – UPDATE

A Word From Standing Rock


For almost a year, I haven’t been able to drive or walk past an active construction site without feeling PTSD. I remember my drive across Texas last December, after my time in North Dakota and seeing a simple road crew repairing the highway, and how I had to pull over at the next rest stop because I was shaking so bad. The whole time I was looking for the yellow helicopter and snipers with orange paint on their rifles on the hills. I continued to turn off my cell phone for all low-flying planes.

Currently, they’re rebuilding a pipeline in the Rio Grande Gorge on the way to Santa Fe. I do my best not to feel the pain of the Earth every time I pass it. Just last week, in Philly I saw the construction there as what it really is, another war zone.

In the cities, they commit war crimes against the most vulnerable. Everywhere else, they do the same, but also dig up Earth, attacking her directly, poisoning everyone downstream.

I’ve learned my exits in protests, learned how to stay out of harm’s way, but then there was that one time they blocked a caravan of over 500 warriors from returning back to camp after an action where we arrived and left peacefully and in prayer, to check each car for specific people they designated as leaders and wanted to imprison. I thought they were going to arrest all 500 of us that day. Leave our cars stranded and impound what they could. The walked amongst the cars with rifles drawn, face masks on. For them this was some kind of war game to put on.

Before leaving that action, I retraced my steps to make sure my sister that I traveled with made it out okay. The highway was clouds of mace and the approaching army of hundreds of heavily armed police in military fatigues. My phone was blaring the alarm that the highway was shut down due to protester activity and to seek other routes.

My brother who I met in Rosebud camp and was just beginning to develop a solar powered recording studio to record and train native youth in DIY recording when I met him is now stuck in a jail cell because a rogue judge wanted to prove a point and send fear into other protectors. He was on a prayer walk. That’s it. That’s why they put him away.

Red Fawn who was arrested over a year ago, is still sitting in a jail cell for things she didn’t commit. She has yet to even be sentenced and her lawyers and family have a hard time reaching her. We have living prisoners of war in our country. It’s not just Leonard Peltier who’s been stuck in a jail cell and survived several assassination attempts since the 70s for a crime he didn’t commit. This is a women, not much older than myself, who they’ve imprisoned because they recognized her strength.

I was there for election day, but all of this happened in Obama’s America. The acting president of the United States couldn’t even mention the war that was going on in our own country, until most of it had already happened. He was questioned by the UN, by international citizens, and he would dodge the questions. His faux call for a halt to destruction last December was to save face because they didn’t want the bad press of the thousands of veterans who arrived in support and to stand guard over the prayers sustaining the same wounds and trauma that our indigenous relatives had already been going through for months. The pipeline didn’t even stop building for a single day, even though his call for a halt made construction illegal. Even though it was illegal all along because of broken treaties and the lack of an environmental impact statement.

Don’t share this post. Look to our indigenous relatives who faced much worse. Have been fighting against genocide for over 500 years. I share my experience, because the trauma is not forgotten by those who were there. By those who were connected to the movement, even though they couldn’t be there in person. It is still faced by those who are fighting for their lives, for their culture in the dozen or so pipeline and other resource extraction projects currently being built across the continent on indigenous land, right now. Over burial mounds and other sacred sites. Through sacred waterways and traditional hunting grounds.

Today, is an anniversary for a lot of us. For me, it was the eviction of the Treaty Camp that finally pushed me to let go of everything else and get up there. I should’ve been there earlier. I could’ve been there earlier, but felt I needed a grounded group with a plan to arrive with.

I spent most of my time there chopping wood and delivering it to different folks in need. Spent time offering support to the IIYC. I lived the most relaxed life I could’ve dreamed. I actually, for the first time in my life, felt like a human being.

I’ve seen myself in those photos. I still can’t believe how utterly honest the Corporate States of America could be. Armored tanks and military fatigues. Sound cannons and humvees equipped with microwaves. Snipers on the hills and no sign of the police to lock up these hired goons. The fact that I was there and it was in my own country still baffles me.

At night I would sit by the sacred fire in Rosebud and listen to the elders. Mostly they would crack jokes back and forth or talk about where they were from. They seemed to never sleep because I always left them there still talking no matter how late it was.

I remember they talked about the youth a few times. The young warriors who had been maced, tear-gassed, shot with rubber bullets, and physically brutalized during the eviction of the treaty camp and the attempt to reclaim Turtle Island a few days later. The elders commented on how for some of the youth it was as if their spirit had sunk back in them. The light in their eyes was shrinking. They worried about their well-being.

The IIYC talked about it too at meetings. While I was there they organized a candlelit vigil to pray for those still experiencing trauma. To pray for those who attacked them. It seemed like a thousand of us walked with them with lit candles to the Cannonball River where only a week before, warriors had held a line singing prayers in the freezing river while the police tear-gassed and maced them.

During the candlelit vigil there was not a single word of condemnation for the other side. Even with all that trauma and suffering. The youth leaders only asked for the strength to keep going. For the ancestors to help them heal their spirits. I saw so much power glowing in them from that day forward. Their prayers were answered in so many forms.

We live in a capitalist, corporate-owned, police state. We have lived in one since the Constitution was written. Since the Declaration of Independence.

Who’s independence? Not mine. Not yours. Not the hundreds of tribes who have faced cultural genocide since Columbus first set foot in the outer reaches of this place. Not the millions of descendants of slaves who despite Amendment 13 haven’t received their freedom because of the color of their skin.

Folks want to say because of last year’s election, there is a renewed sense of urgency. No. There has always been an urgency. Now, we just get to see it more clearly. The whole damn thing is broken. It never worked in the first place.

We are overdue for something new, or a return to the values of this continent’s First Nations’ peoples.

John Trudell speaks wisdom when he says “We Are Power”. It’s not just power to the people, like what everyone was saying in the 60s.
We are energy.

The corporations and mercenaries in North Dakota understood that. The Corporate States of America understand that. That is why they attacked us with so much force. Their only understanding of power is brute force.

But
We are power
We are energy

Their fear of this power can and will not break our spirit. Their methods of oppression are weak and inferior. Their time of ruling over us is running out.
Together we have the power to overcome all of it and start something post-imperialist.
Post-war.
We have the power to free us all and together create a more peaceful world in tune with this planet we live on and all the nations of people who call it their home.

A Word From Standing Rock

South Kensington’s A War Zone

SOUTH KENSINGTON’S A WAR ZONE

Walking through South Kensington is like walking through a war zone. Rapid fire machine guns. Nail guns. Jackhammers. Industrial machinery. Tractor trailers beeping backwards. Dump trucks unfilling their refuse. Shouting so loudly the dust shakes off old concrete bricks and into a cloud of chaos. Eris rules supreme. The sound waves echoing off half-constructed shoddy plywood walls holding up these neo-futuristic monstrosities. Desolate warehouses collapsing under the severe pressure of the drum taps. Ash and smoke rising in the breeze from block to abandoned lot, where the bodies used to pile, now turned into yuppie condos.

Out west they are burning down whole forests, old redwood groves. Whole towns. The “carelessness” of the people in charge. A stray electric wire on a utility pole. Wonder what mini-mall they’ll build next in place of these historic sights.

Back east we’re building rich American Dreams for those who can’t dream on their own. The Manifest Destiny of filling every neighborhood corner and former urban garden and raw alley and even the cracks in the sidewalk with the travesty of supply and demand for a place where no one will know your name, even though you live right next to them, and there’s high black gates in front of every doorway in case someone gets the wrong impression seeking a neighbor.

How did I live through this as long as I did? With every step I step a little closer to this nervousness inside myself coming to the surface. Unconscious to it but feeling my heart racing nonetheless. This concrete jungle active and alive as whole neighborhoods are renovated to suit rich white folk interests from New York and the Jersey burbs squashing an identity that took decades, even generations to grow. Gentrification in a matter of moments.

Developers greedy rich with ideas for what they’ll call this “new” hood, sequestering google maps with murals and handmade road signs they hang from telephone poles, depicting a language of money.

One thing I forget until I return to Philly is the depression. What it feels like to have your hopes dashed in front of you by machines more powerful. Corruption and greed using the anarchy of bureaucracy against you. Creating new structures out of a world that you thought was shared. The exteriors built to crumble so the replacements aren’t even worth the amount of trauma they subjugate us with.

I find it interesting how as I cross over into Northern Liberties, an old hot bed for this type of displacement which has mostly settled down in recent years, except for the outer reaches, my mind and my heart come back into focus. I feel present with my surroundings. I experience the feeling of readjustment. Being one with the sun above.

I can actually hear myself think and the sound of my brother speak, telling a story he’s been saying all along but as we crossed into the war zone it became all jumbled, practically frantic, losing its focus, and becoming just more of the static as I try to make out his point but can’t even figure out what is happening in the present moment.

South Kensington’s A War Zone

A POEM FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

A POEM FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

It is my distinct honor to be featured today on the front page of The Santa Fe New Mexican, one of the longest running newspapers in the southwest.

Straddled beside news of Hurricane Irma’s impending landfall, I’d like to think I’ve been typing up a little hurricane of my own over the last 2 years while I’ve lived in New Mexico. One that instead of wreaking havoc and destruction, has brought light to the four corners encouraging people to think more with their hearts, connecting to their surroundings.

There have been many predecessors before me, cultivating the street poet hustle, and I honor them all hoping that this little feature serves to inspire those that follow. Thank you so much to Robert Nott for the interview and to Gabriela Campos for this shot of me amid thought, soaking up the air with a furrowed brow, and my tongue hanging out in an ever so slightly clownish way.

Most days I am still absolutely amazed that this is my life. This is my body. I really appreciate everyone who has supported me along the way in getting here. Every word of encouragement has been a much needed push to keep me on my path, continuously moving forward.

You can read the article here: http://www.santafenewmexican.com/life/features/a-poem-for-your-thoughts/article_09033daf-d663-5853-8fd2-5a6ad9350446.html

A POEM FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

Dreams of Non-Violent Action

Had a dream last night. Traveled to a city like Boston or Atlanta. Attended a Neo-Nazi/White Supremacy rally. Somehow managed to slip through the police barricades and heavily armed militias with a fold-up desk, a chair, and a typewriter.

I set up my poetry station like I was supposed to be there and sat down. Took my hat off and stroked the feathers. Pheasant for abundance. Stellar Jay for creative spirit. Flicker for speed and agility.

At first no one noticed me.

Then the poem requests started rolling in. I looked into those pale devil faces and wrote poems for people’s mothers, about love and travel, about new beginnings, about politics. The most popular topic as usual was dog poems.

The typical dad joke came and went with frequency, “Haven’t seen one of those in a while”, noticing the typewriter.

I nodded my cap and typed on.

The entire time I was combatting my fears. Fears that at any moment someone was going to come over and attack me. Throw me out. Take my typewriter and smash out my teeth with it. On the surface, I maintained my composure. Focused on the poems.

The attack never happened. They didn’t see me that way. To them, I was one of them. A white man just there doing his thing.

Funny thing, I’ve found. Everyone likes a poet and his poetry. Even a fucking Nazi. Those that don’t, just don’t notice me. I’m invisible to their eyes as long as I keep typing. White privilege is a mask that means I can appear anywhere with usually not too much confrontation.
That is where my power lay.

Every single one of those Nazis was a bad tipper, but that’s not why I was there. In each poem, I wrote secret messages, there for their eyes to read. For the poems about mothers, I reminded them of Mother Earth pillaged by our fathers and fathers’ fathers waiting patiently for us to return to honoring her. For the poems about love, I talked about consent and how hearts connect across the universe conjuring magic that only two lovers know. About travel, I wrote about the main reason for travel is to broaden one’s views and learn about the diversity of the world taking in all this culture and finding ourselves. About politics, I wrote about our real enemies: the corporations that own our politicians and pit us against each other so that we fight one another while they rob us behind our backs. With dogs, I wrote about the wisdom of our animal relatives and how we’re all wild animals ourselves.

As my confidence gained, I started to write more radical things. To bridge the worlds and send light into the darkness. The words just kept flowing, transforming the requests into a seed for the heart.

To say this was a dream is short-sighted. It was an absolute nightmare. Surrounded by all of that heavily-armed hate, and all I could do was burn sage and light incense. All the while writing poems that I thought at the very least would garner some type of verbal barrage followed by physical assault. Just dealing with these alt-humans and their completely backwards viewpoints made my stomach sink. Had my heart giving me chest pains. Really increased my anxiety.

But each time, just like always…the response was gratitude and a smile or a “that’s awesome”.

The dream made no sense. Even in it I was confused.

I was almost driven to write a poetic response to the next Nazi who stepped up with any topic and have it speak to him more directly saying, “You’re a fucking Nazi. Go home. We’re tired”, to see if it would get the expected response. But in the dream, I lacked that kind of bravery. Lacked the same kind of bravery that it would take to punch each one of those Nazis. Wasn’t sure if being direct would have any effect anyway.

All I could hope was that those tiny pages of light, planted seeds that would eventually grow, crack right through the fascist concrete exterior and blossom renewed hope in these wayward children.

At the end of the dream I burned all of the money. Some watched me with open stares but most went on about their business. I packed up my poetry office and walked off back into the shadows. I awoke and realized I was never there to begin with.

In the dream, I think I must’ve been tired of marching. Awake, I wonder if doing this in real life would be good medicine.

Dreams of Non-Violent Action

Poets For Peace in Taos

POETS FOR PEACE
Tour no. 4
Day 4 – Taos: recap
on the road with Julia Daye and Anthony Carson

[Read the article in Taos News here.]

To return to the high desert. A community we’ve all grown in. Surrounded by our peers of peace. The night is full of ceremony.

Rose petals made love to are passed around and everyone is instructed to hold them throughout the night channeling peace into those red rosy petals to be buried in the earth later like a seed. Then Alexandra Grajeda shared the prayers of her ancestors to help us to be present for the exchange.

Her words come out slow and graceful. The audience relaxes brought into a space of community.

The Poets For Peace have already shared various emotions in their previous events. Punk rage. The inner clown. This night the tears begin to flow.

As I read essays on my experiences at Standing Rock, I can feel chills stir in the audience and those chills then run up my spine stirring me until I am uncontrollably weeping at each sentence, reliving the experiences as I read them.

Julia and Anthony feel this too. We are all on extra edge. The power of the night causing us to pay special attention to the spells we cast.

At the end of the evening we sit in a circle and everyone exchanges their thoughts and prayers. Hearing the diversity of voices, seeing the diversity of faces, I can’t help but think of an image of Peace that was common when I was a kid. All the people of the world holding hands while dancing around the circumference of the planet.

We sit and exchange.
Everyone listens.
Again I am weeping.
Hearing so much purity of heart.
Hearing the talents of this wild place.
The room feels cathartic.
We are all in this together.
Finding our way.

Poets For Peace in Taos

Poets For Peace in Boulder

POETS FOR PEACE
Tour no. 4
Day 3 – Boulder: recap
on the road with Julia Daye and Anthony Carson

The night in Boulder ends at a pizza place. The table filled with poets old and new. Poets For Pizza. It’s the history of the town that puts this in context. Here we are, the Allen Ginsberg’s, Jack Kerouac’s, Neal Cassidy’s of our generation hovering around our slices of pizza like coffee mugs, discussing the politics of the day.

I look around at my peers and am in awe of the power of these individuals around me. Journeyers and dreamers. Wordsmiths and musicians. Voicing the concerns of the oppressed. Creating a more intersectional reality. Serving their community inwards and outwards.

Earlier there was a poetry reading at Innisfree Poetry Bookstore & Cafe, one of the only poetry-specific bookstores in the country. Full of beatnik and meta-beatnik flare, as well as so many other incredibly powerful voices.

The reading begins with the words of Jona Fine. Taking us back to the shooting at a night club in Orlando last year. The outcry of the LGBTQ+ community. The fear that beckons at our door again. The strength of those who have been through it before, coming together and raising each other up to face another day.

Matt Clifford follows. Honoring the inner clown. Espousing through satire, 2nd amendment laws and the way government polices us all. His truths that we all die, most of us relatively soon, are met with bursts of laughter. Jaws dropping. Turning over this bleak reality. And yet the joy inside a moment so fleeting.

More and more students and vagabonds begin marching in. Fellow peaceniks and curious townsfolk. Carrying signs and songs of the rêvelution. The room swells for the Poets For Peace.

It creates the space for two clowns and the voice of the mother earth to take to the microphone and shed applause and laughter on the atmosphere. The room evolving from poetry to vaudeville. The clowns laughing so hard, they’re not sure if others laugh with them, at them, or maybe are all silent, their own laughter being so loud it serves to seem like it’s everyone’s. The voice of the mother earth giving soothing, healing vibes with her groundedness.

A round robin of poetry from each one of them. Haikus that sing. Prayers to Mother Earth. Songs of enlightenment.

The one clown with a guitar makes faces that cause some clowns in the audience to burst out laughing. He says, “Oh, you like that? You like my face?” and continues with more eccentricity in his expressions and voice acting.

The voice of the mother earth blows wind into the two clowns’ fires. She speaks eloquently and passionately about the plague of toxic masculinity on her surface. On her terrestial body. It causes the clowns to settle down with their horseplay and focus on how they too are a part of the problem, but can also be part of the solution.

The other clown reads of the Hayukka. The Sacred Clowns of Lakota legend. He talks of direct action and nonviolent protest. Something of a skit like The Three Stooges that took place at Standing Rock, involving clowns in a canoe and police following along the shore in a professional golf cart.

The night almost lasts too long. But it’s just perfect. Short enough to be a dream. Long enough to leave everyone feeling complete.

To finish it off, one of the clowns pulls out a kaleidoscope and shares his psychedelic visions with the peaceniks who have amassed around him. One of them drops it and it shatters into a million pieces. Confetti for the breeze to take away into the infinite star dust above. When the clown picks it up and looks back through this kaleidoscope monacle, the vision is even more twisted and satisfying.

Everything in rainbows and ecstatic multi-colored light.

Poets For Peace in Boulder