Today

(inspired by Feed, a Newsflesh trilogy book, authored by Mira Grant)

Today
I listen
to this book
wonder what it’d be
like to lose everyone you
love and didn’t want to bury.

Thankful for

(a Thanksgiving poem)

My friends,
my family,
my colleagues in the struggle
to free our people.
The people, everywhere, who are Occupying.

The knowledge that the arc
of the moral universe is long,
but it bends toward justice,
according to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The fact that I have been around
to witness so much of it,
when I was supposed to die
a bunch of times,
but I guess I inherited
my mom’s stubbornness,
Because I'm still here.

Poem in 60 Seconds

(Actually true today, but I kept my word to the Center for new Americans)

A minute
to write
short poem,
keeping word.

Marching...

We marched by multitude
of Wall Street Banks
Some got arrested
for occupying the inside
of ATM
large burly white men,
not a brown face
among them and I looked-
hard.

Funny that,
because this was the
most faces like mine
I’ve ever marched with
in hundreds of marches
during the previous two decades.

Post TDOR

(in honor of Transgender Day of Remembrance)

How could
I not realize
that 221 trans people
were murdered in 2011?

How could
any sheriff think
that a murder involving a shot
to the head and possibly being
dragged behind a vehicle via rope or chain
is not a hate crime, even in Arkansas?

How can
we dare to think
that marching with candles
and songs
will ever be enough?

Nov.18th Poem

Note: Scott Lively is an American author, attorney and ex-gay activist. Lively is the president of Abiding Truth Ministries, a conservative Christian organization located in Springfield, MA.[1] Abiding Truth Ministries is classified as a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center.

Some white, male counter protester
when I gone to join friends opposing bigotry,
homophobia, and other bad things,
dared ask, “What are you doing here with these people?”

As if someone in a wheelchair
couldn’t possibly think for herself,
have opinions,
have sex
possibly- oh, my gosh-with someone who also had a vagina or
double oh, my gosh- was also in a wheelchair
or- triple oh, my gosh- both.

What I should’ve said is,
”Because Mr. Lively is misrepresenting Jesus,
and I object.”, “Because these are my people,
not these people.”, or simply, “Fuck you!”

What I did instead,
was say, “I bisexual.”
and watch him take
three steps back.”

It was most satisfying.

Another Occupy Poem

Hacker housemate
tells me about violence
at UC Berkeley Occupy.

I rush to Facebook,
check on friends…
feel reassured…

Can breathe!

Weird, Little Poem

Observation
beam… noise…
Toys… royal… turquoise…
violet screaming…
occupy… brag

Today in Literature

(for Katrina Douveas)

I opened a check for six quarters
from a fellow spoken word diva
with a disability, who manages
to spare some change for new Americans.

I wrote a poem,
read a book,
and finally add over 500 words
to my Nanowrimo novel.

It is a good day.

One Poet’s Lament

The muse has flown the coop;
departing along with my air
and last week's restful night’s sleep.

The Day of Laze

One a day of fire though my airway,
I have written 47 more words
of my novel, zero articles
(even though I have two that are vital to complete)
and finished this poem to support the literacy programming
I respect.

Hopefully,
tomorrow will bring easier breathing
and a re-energized wordsmith.

Just when (again)

One no show, new assistant
an ex- friend who is apparently to busy binging
on alcohol to care about
his future stepchild’s well being,
and being found in my PJ’s by the “I’ve fallen
and I can’t get up” necklace repair woman
who a headache caused me to forget
was arriving this morning.

I recover my day-
I get another copy of last year’s taxes
in under 30 minutes from the IRS,
learn a new bus route,
eat pizza with fellow transit revolutionaries,
and print out stuff to take protesting tomorrow
only to discover I’ve somehow lost
my barely used roll of scotch tape.

Today

Useless day
of illness and naps, mocks task
completion.

Power outage

(a Center for New Americans poem)
Pencil gliding across paper,
graphite over smooth, new notebook
is more elegant than the quiet clatter
of laptop keys.
I realize,

as I imitate Susan B. Anthony
crafting word that will beguile
the revolution’s enemies
by candlelight.

Quick Thoughts

So busy with power outages and catching up on work;
opting to honor Oakland’s general strike even though.

I decide that poetry and fiction for once
won’t count as work ,
more like sanity producing,
especially since it’s for charity.

I talk to Sarah, am relieved at her good spirits,
Can't help but onder how Anita steered
so many young, girl gimps into adulthood
without seeming to sweat,
even slightly.