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.

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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

Poets For Peace – on tour 

POETS FOR PEACE
tour in August through the Southwest

Tomorrow, I will embark on the road again with Poets For Peace. It’s been nice to have the break to write for myself and catch up on other areas in my life, but with the increased aggression mounting in the Pacific from the United States war machine, I find myself drawn back into the endless peace walk I began with several other poets on the East Coast earlier this year.

This time I will be joined by wordsmiths Julia Daye and Anthony Carson both currently residing in Taos, NM. Last year, though sometimes it feels like much longer ago, we were on the road up to North Dakota in a caravan to Standing Rock. I think I can speak for all of us when I say our experiences there greatly changed our lives. It was there that we saw what America’s war machine looks like when it is turned against its own people. But it was also there that we discovered a great Peace manifesting in the people’s collective prayers, sharing traditions far older than this Western imperialism.

I’m excited to share the road with these great fellow Earth Protectors again. To share some light with our surrounding communities. To create dialogues of hope and progress. To channel peace and love. With this fire in our hearts we shall overcome.

Dates are below! Hope to see you out at one of our shows!

Poets For Peace Tour with Julia Daye and Anthony Carson

• 8/22 LIVE on 93.5FM KNCE
• 8/23 at Seventh Circle Music Collective in Denver, CO
• 8/24 at Innisfree Poetry Bookstore & Cafe in Boulder, CO
• 8/25 at Ennui Gallery in Taos, NM

Poets For Peace – on tour 

A Visit to #TentCityATL

POETS FOR PEACE
Tour #2
Day 5 – Atlanta
photo by Heather Marie Laveau

On our last night of tour, as the Libra full moon rose over downtown Atlanta, Catherine Rush and I performed with the local leaders of #TentCityATL. It’s an occupation outside of the former Braves baseball stadium, which is being redeveloped by Georgia State University. The encampment is set up to protest the gentrification of the surrounding neighborhoods and make sure the Community Benefits Agreement agreed upon by thousands of members of the neighborhood is used for any future developments.

There was magic held in this moonlight to share words on the front lines in the urban center of a city, and call upon the bald eagles and many blessings I witnessed at Standing Rock to come here to this city of Atlantis. To hear the stories of neighbors and their experiences fighting the imperialistic war machine throughout their lives. To see community formed around a cause that will benefit the many, and take power away from the few.

This energy is rising. It has been for a while now. The floodgates have been released. In each city. In each neighborhood. In each residence. The people are coming together and fighting off the warmongers. Fighting off the profiteers. They’re fighting for the right to exist. They’re fighting for their identities. They’re fighting for PEACE.

One wisdom from the night shared by a sister activist and poet: “When we think of peace, we think of flowers. But, to get flowers you have to shake up the ground a little. You know, till the earth and such. To get peace, we’re going to have to shake things up a little. Overturn the ground. That’s how peace can grow.”

A Visit to #TentCityATL

“MAHWAH” MEANS “MEETING GROUND” IN LENNI LENAPE

A pleasant mist hangs in the trees. There are bright colored faces carved into the wood. Ancestors reaching through the bark to the present. Half asleep in their awakened stare.

We circle around the open fire as the Peace Walkers march in. Peace Walkers from Okinawa and elsewhere. Buddhist in Faith, but all of us connected in prayers for the Water.

We face the East and welcome the Sun. We face the West and watch it go. We face the North and welcome the Wind. As we turn South, Red-Tailed Hawk soars over us in a patch of sky between the trees.

I’m reminded of my time spent in Standing Rock, from the songs that are sung. From the drums that are played. Native flutes and sage smoke. Tobacco and prayer.

We stand near the water and hold it in our hand. Prayers of Love and Hope. We blow on these Prayers with our Breath and sprinkle them into the Ramapo River.

I watch as the Tobacco drifts downstream. It swirls with renewed energy. It feeds the Waters with Life. A Life to Protect.

“MAHWAH” MEANS “MEETING GROUND” IN LENNI LENAPE

March Forth, My Friends

​MARCH FORTH, MY FRIENDS
We assemble for a friend’s birthday party and it doesn’t take me long to realize all of these friends I’ve made over the years come from completely different backgrounds and schoolings with one main defining similarity. 

They are all farmers.

These friends I’ve connected with for all sorts of reasons, when it comes right down to it, enjoy nothing more than putting their hands in the dirt and making seeds come to life.

So here we are, sitting in a circle discussing a variety of tools from permaculture and the changing growing seasons, as well as what native seeds we got at the most recent seed trade and how owned land is hard to come by, so making due with squatting on abandoned land works just as well.
As the conversation moves into a reaction towards regressive politicians, the night begins to take on the look and feel of a general assembly. And as I look around me, I realize the free radicals around me are all regenerative agriculturalists. These guerilla warriors are planting corn where a rowhome burned down 20 years ago and garbage has been disposed of since.

They’re the people on the frontlines of every protest, dressed in all black, taking cracks from the policeman’s billy club. 

They’re the clowns in the background raising spirits.

In all of this, they’re the ones making moves when a lot of us feel frozen. Urban gardeners continuing to prepare for the apocalypse.
Their gardens are the next to be lost. In this city, like every city, that cares more about tax revenue than moderating development to make sure developers keep in tune with the identity of the neighborhood they rape and pillage, green space is running out.

These gardeners have already lawyered up, organized petitions, and cut locks to keep their gardens operating. Food For The People are words of revolution for them.

A day later, I’m in the streets of my old neighborhood. I’m playing trumpet in a New Orleans style death march for a cat that passed away only recently. We’re all dressed in shiny, psychedelic costumes from Mummers parades past. Some of us have drums, kazoos, fireworks and other noisemakers.

The march starts with somber notes. Slow and cold we fill the street, holding a walking vigil. I feel like I’m playing a melody that is for the death of my old home in East Kensington. We pass shoddily built condos. $450,000 4-story megahomes. They’re all ugly behemoths atop streets full of sinkholes and cracked concrete. I remember all the former lots, the former community gardens, the weird art sculptures, and the grounds we had pop up music shows in.

Some of us are weeping. A lot of us are feeling glad to feel this warmth of community. We bury the cat and our leader who is part Cherokee sings a song of returning the earth to its former glory. Encouraging the grass to grow where the burial mound now is.
A neighbor overhears one of us discussing how shitty her giant condo is. She yells, “Hey, I heard that. I heard you saying that about my house.” Drunk, the guy says he doesn’t care. He can’t wait till it falls down in three years.

There’s a lot of tension and I think to myself, “Welcome to Philly.”

Someone does eventually say, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
At that we start marching again. This time the melodies are upbeat and raucous. “Oh when the saints…go marching in….oh when the saints go marching in.”
There are a lot of drum break downs and horn solos and the band starts singing as their followers join in dancing. 
Eventually we make it back to the house party for March Fourth.
“March Forth,” everyone yells.
A simple parade. Perhaps the beginning of new traditions.

March Forth, My Friends