SUMMER OF LOVE

I fall into the dream and don’t look back. The Muse is there. Her green eyes transfixed on the form my body takes between foolish leaps of inner revolution.

FALLING. Falling. falling.

The way two bodies merge in such tranquil motion. Atop mountain boulders. Beside the trickle of wet streams. Upon the shores of desert lakes resembling surrealist paintings from another century.

She the High Priestess. The Queen of Cups. A faerie springing from the leaf in the wind. The waterways that flow through us. Blood lines that brought us to this place together.

Funny how you can fall for someone in an hour and a half car ride where for the last half hour, half the car is asleep and the other half is saying to himself, “Well, at least she exists. I was starting to think I’d been holding too high expectations. But now I see she’s out there. I’m satisfied just to know she exists,” and not expecting anything beyond the crossing of their transits.

But two stars built of the same cosmic dust tend to find an alignment in their gravitation at least for a short bit.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting for two people to go on the road together traveling to national parks across the country, sleeping together underneath the stars, finding waterfalls to lay each other under, climbing trees to hang upon the view in one another’s arms, so that when finally they conceive a child they could say this starseed was conceived in a beautiful place,” she muses.

Warrior rambling between revolution and lovemaking. Her soft embrace a sacrament to boost both their life forces. Even in conflict, their conversation of peaceful resolve. Gaining a better understanding for communication that lies beyond the tongue. Eye gazing till the gold of the sun adds depth to their inner light. Magic that illuminates the path they both stand on.

“You’re such a romantic,” she says.

“I’m one of the last,” he replies.

Poetry read out loud during these long car rides. Roads blocked because of the forest fires, but with every orgasm another monsoon to douse the flames. Soon the earth is wet and fertile again. He, her humble Pan, pantomiming the flute as they climb the rocks and go swimming in the river. She, his Artemis, her beauty soaking up moonlight, soaking up river bends, bouncing upon forest undergrowth in tune to the beat of his heart rhythms.

Purple lupine line the roadway. Datura blooms on every city street corner.

“I love how you’re such a Dreamer,” he exclaims.

“What do you mean when you say that?” she asks.

“It’s something in your eyes.”

“Oh, you mean the madness?”

“Perhaps that’s what it is. But how I see it, you have one eye focused on this plane and the other sees deeply into the spirit world, beyond it.”

They talk of hallucinogenic trips they’ve took. Lessons they’ve learned. Ceremonies they’ve held. They eat mushrooms while sitting at the edge of a painting and examine the fractals that overlay their bodies.

Green chile and lime sauce. Enough to move a peyote button to skip across the roof of a purple adobe cavern.

Time melts. The sea splits in half. They move between worlds unseen by the general populace. But their motions are felt. Must be all the love. The look on each one’s face. A little glimmer of hope in this great wasteland of chaos.

The dreams they craft. Drifting out. Rippling out. Writhing from skin on skin contact. Everywhere they go, the rains follow. She commands him with her hands to grab her breasts and ride the infinite crescent moon she holds beneath her dress.

Both panting, but not exhausted, they connect the worlds and bridge their passions in a way that only lovers can.

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SUMMER OF LOVE

COMPASSION IS CONTAGIOUS

COMPASSION IS CONTAGIOUS

I’m brought back to my time in North Dakota, holding space with the indigenous protectors of sacred waters. Another long drive through miles of agriculture to a point of interest in the middle of nowhere to meet as a clan of rainbow people and stand up against injustice.

This time we are calling for the protection of families and individual children. The corporations are not digging up death and employing the black snake to transport it beneath our feet under sacred waterways. No, they’ve decided to put death out in the open, this time utilizing the form of a tent city to detain hundreds of children in 100° desert temperatures.

A local representative comments on the audacity of this current administration using taxpayer dollars to build these concentration camps, doing so seemingly overnight. He goes further expressing how adequate aid still hasn’t been provided for our citizenry in Puerto Rico recovering from Hurricane Maria, and yet they build these “detention centers” so quickly. Saying we must look in the mirror as a nation. This presidency is conscious of the acts of genocide it is committing. It is continuing an American tradition.

“Open borders,” a sign reads.
“Abolish ICE.”
“Yes, we care,” in white painted on the back of a green silk coat.

“Si, se puede,” she chants. The audience goes wild and moves closer to get a better view. Bobby Kennedy’s daughter moves to the side after introducing the esteemed labor activist, Dolores Huerta.

“Si, se puede!”

Huerta encourages everyone in the crowd not to give up. She says we must keep marching. That this administration has already backed down after rising public pressure. We must keep the pressure on. She recants slogans from her days as a young labor activist saying a democracy fails without a strong middle class. We must empower the workers of the middle class. Goes on to say we must be marching every day. Says everything but “seize the means of production”. But she says that too, only in her own way.

The woman who coined the catchphrase, “Yes, we can” has no doubt that the people can unite and thwart their oppressors.

I am struck by how there is a difference in cadence between the politicians’ way of talking and the activists ability to rally. Politicians with their lines well-rehearsed and a controlled pattern of when and how to gauge a rise from the audience.

On the other hand, activists move straight from the heart. Their words are not always smooth and well-versed, but they move the audience deeper into feeling what’s right from the blood to the breath. Mothers and teachers talking about the issues from personal experience. And the more seasoned the activist, the more their heartspeak is a spell cast that wraps the audience up in a swirl of synergy between heart, mind, and spirit.

“Dreamers are not illegal.”
“No illegals, on stolen land.”
“Love Trumps Hate.”
“Impeach.”
*Persist.”

A few thousand feet away, behind several rows of chainlink fence, you can see the pointed tops of several canvas tents baking in the hot sun.

Speakers from the Border Network for Human Rights remind the audience that these children are refugees running from struggles that America’s foreign policy has created. They speak in terms of compassion pointing out that many of these families are not victims. They are strong people who stood up to the gangs and corrupt politicians of their homelands and as a result were pushed to flee.

They remind us that not all of these children are just from the American continents. ICE and border patrol have been going after dreamers from all different backgrounds. The policies that go after the most at risk are based in white supremacist ideology.

In this last group of activists, who have worked so closely with the refugees that are detained, I see how we have yet to hear from the actual refugees themselves in the mainstream media. In the coverage of this debacle, these very real people have been dehumanized to numbers and mere statistics.

All of their stories are yet to be told. We must use our own hearts to understand what they must be going through. To understand what it must be like to be separated from your child, and told by an ICE agent you’ll never see them again.

All of it feels unreal and because it is so real, we must continue to fight. We must unify under one banner. Many speakers during the rally emphasized voting in November. But it goes beyond that. It goes beyond calling your elected representatives. It goes beyond marching in the streets and planning direct actions. It’ll take a radical shift in every aspect of American life to curb the monstrosity we have empowered. But, Si, se puede! We are alive at this time to do exactly that.

Only apathy will hold us back.

COMPASSION IS CONTAGIOUS

“Libraries” at The Front in NOLA

Hey, New Orleans friends! Check it out! In addition to the installation I curated this past weekend at Currents New Media Festival, on Saturday some of my printed works were featured on the other end of the country.

“Libraries”, an exhibition curated by my alma mater Little Berlin, is up right now at The Front in New Orleans, LA. The exhibition will be on view at the gallery until July 9th.

Thank you to Will Owen and Cayla Lockwood for thinking of me and including me in the collection of zines and printed works from the Little Berlin zine library.

If you’re in New Orleans, go give the exhibition a look and check out some of my writing from the past couple of years.

“Libraries” at The Front in NOLA

Currents New Media Festival – Update

Working today with Anthony Carson on our ManifeSTATION Station, which will premiere at Currents New Media Festival in Santa Fe, NM during opening weekend, June 7th-June 10th.

Step inside this lotus tent and add your manifestations to the air. There will be audio and visual projections to make all these manifestations come true. We’re talking about the simple things and the big things. The everything that is personal and the way things like the Earth call us home.

Outside the ManifeSTATION Station, Anthony and I will be offering #dreamsbyrequest in the form of drawings and typewritten poetry. Can’t wait to pull this wild experience together and share it with you all, come June!

Currents New Media Festival – Update

 

I woke up Sunday morning and wondered if it had all been just a dream. The kind of dreaming where it is hard to distinguish the surreal from reality. A whirlwind of sound and experience. And every element falling into place exactly as it should be.

It only happens once every few years, but on Saturday night I separated from my dream body, the magical unicorn, Ma Ja Ka. It was the closing night of “A Poem Is Where The Heart Is…” and the mood seemed right for us to become two bodies in order to read some of the poetry everyone has written throughout National Poetry Month inside the gallery.

Thank you everyone for attending this grand dream exhibition! Thank you to everyone who played such a big role in creating it. So much beauty and community was shared. I’m still frolicking in the euphoria stirred in my heart. I thought I’d be relieved to have the month over, but honestly, my heart aches for more. Looking forward to everything that comes next in this wild life.

In The Taos News

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“A Poem Is Where The Heart Is…” in the Taos News this morning. Read the full article here: https://taosnews.com/stories/art-for-arts-sake,48089

Come see Taos hum!
Saturday, May 12 at 7pm at Parse Seco
with live music by Daughter Dear and Esmé Olivia
and an interactive sound installation designed by Jamin Reyes, Sam Fischer, Brett Tomadin, and myself.

Don’t miss it!

In The Taos News

When I first started talking about building “A Poem Is Where The Heart Is…”, my installation at Parse Seco in Taos, NM for National Poetry Month, multiple folks responded saying, “Wow, what you’re building really captures what it’s like inside the Poet’s mind”. That’s certainly the aesthetic I’ve always chosen, where the more senses that are stimulated the merrier.

With projections flying across the page, sounds humming from every direction, readings that challenge the hierarchial norms of poesis, music and movement, dishes to dine upon, and as many people as possible stuffed into the room speaking beautiful verse all at the same time, the dream exhibition is just beginning to take form.

My favorite part about this past month has been all of the unenvisioned collaborations that have manifested through the act of creating a space where anything can be born. I’ve seen so many connect and so many more find their voice. I’ve sat as audience and had all of my heart strings pulled, so that the tears and the laughs come out on all fronts. I’ve felt elation just piecing together all of the ideas and working to keep the space in constant flux through multiple transformations.

A few people have said, “Why don’t you leave it up all summer? I’m going to be sad to see it go.” But all dreams are temporal. And as they pass, it is our memories of them that guide us forth.

Fortunately, this last piece: the closing reception taking place tomorrow night at 7pm, will be a final sonic blast of pure bliss that reflects all that has transpired throughout the exhibit over the past few weeks. I am filled with both excitement and a sense of awe just thinking about all the working parts that’ll come together and make tomorrow night a dream not to be forgotten! From soulful music performed by Mary Arose in her new project Daughter Dear and the sacred harmonies performed by Esmé Olivia with her guitar and loop station and hand drum, to the dozens of poets reading from that infinite scroll everyone has spilled the ink of their heart upon, to the cacophonous sound installation built by myself, Jamin Reyes, Sam Fischer, and Brett Tomadin turning the short staccatos of a typewriter orchestra into the thick depths of a cosmic swirl.

We will hear Taos hum.
It’ll begin as a gentle purr that’ll quickly work its way through our core before beginning to roar.

Some may dance to its melody. Others will spread their wings and begin to soar. We will all be living in poetry, the words the things that craft our reality. This is a launching point into the community we have always known. I can’t wait to share this experience with you. To be a guest in it, myself.

At some point in the night, someone way down in town or maybe as far away as the Mesa will hear the echos of the ruckus we make above, and say to their lover, “My dear, I think that mountain is alive. I think we made it home.”