Invocation

Note: This is the first Occupy poem I felt good enough to share. More are coming. Enjoy!

This marginalized American body
is a descendent of multiple rebellions.

I invoke
colonists throwing chests
of tea overboard on a cold Boston
night in November.

I invoke
women who realized that the baring
the next generation of Americans
should give them double say
in the country’s future, not none,
and went to jail for the basic right
to cast a ballot.

I invoke
the year long bus boycott in Montgomery
after they arrested Rosa Parks
for deciding she simply wasn’t
going to surrender
her seat another time
to another white man.

I invoke
the spirit of NYC drag queens and queers
who saw cops once more
invading the only safe space they had,
a little bar on Christopher Street
on the last Saturday in June
in the summer of ‘69
as the final straw
and opted to rebel rather than surrender.

I invoke
a too little known occupation
in San Francisco in 1977
in which people with disabilities,
some of whom risked their very lives by participating,
occupied an Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare’s
in San Francisco for 26 days, the longest siege of a federal office
in the nation’s history, which resulted in the signing of Section 504,
a law I still depend on daily.

I am occupying
so when future generations
need someone to invoke
they will have Occupy Wall Street,
Occupy Springfield, and Occupy Together
to remember.

NJ Pride Parade Poem

An acrostic poem in honor of
the first NJ Disability Pride Parade
and Celebration


Newly blooming offshoot of
Efforts first planted in Chicago then on the
West coast.

Joyous proclaiming that we demand right to
Embrace our bodies. However they’re designed.
Regardless of
Someone
Else’s opinion as to our being’s correctness. We
Yearn to turn this

Deepest wish
Into
Something we experience
As daily reality,
But we know there
Is much to accomplish before
Living that dream
Is possible. We must struggle
Together, remembering the pitfalls of
Yesterday’s lost battle as we

Prepare to
Reengage in endless, small wars to achieve the
In and inter
Dependence we so desire. Believing
Each moment in the power

& strength of our

Collective, self-determined, wisdom above all
Else. Directing whatever resources can be spared to
Liberate both ourselves and
Everyone else from
Bondage we never chose. We
Realize this fight will be long
And may last generations, but for
Today, let us say/sign/whatever
Into the heavens that we are here as
One community and we are
Never turning back.

Lost & found & found

Yesterday, I lost my postcard poem.
30th in the 2011 series. Damn well know
I saved it. Such actions are automatic
after years working with words, even if
you're running out the door.

But somewhere,
between keystroke and hard drive
command was lost or garbled.

Horror discovered later
when seeking to post poem
on twitter and Facebook
to earn a few measly cents
for day's poetic effort.

Search proves useless
as far as incommunicado poem goes,
but thankfully finds some lost fiction.

Poem later located
in car of assistant I'm for once
glad was lazy in timely mailing.

Running Ragged

(a postcard poem)

I do the money dance,
rob Peter to pay Paul.
Pay employees with money
meant to purchase a computer case.
Because I don't to shop much about Wal-Mart
for ethical reasons
anyway.

Buy myself a little more time.

Take the bus instead of the van.
Save $2.40 and pray four working lifts
and made connections.

Call in an old loan
to acquire $7 round-trip
fee to doctor's and back.

Hurricane Haiku

(a postcard poem)

Green leaves cling
to trees, withstanding for now
Irene.

Irene

Note: This poem was to be written yesterday but it wasn't.

(a postcard poem)
Rain, wind, and weather
makes 24 month old injury ache.
I sleep much, forget daily postcard poem.

I do my homework,
read a book,
binge on honey nut Chex Mix.

I tell myself
I will indulge
in caffeine and chocolate,

melted center cookies
as I wait for Irene to kill my power
as she’s done to 90,000 others.

In Praise of Technology

This poet's brain
was cursed by
forever neurologically slowed
typing fingers. Digits never meant to
keep pace with quicker than average mind.

I dealt.
I hired other people
to supply surrogate, fast fingers.

First for $7.50, followed by $9.50, followed by $10.12,
and, lastly, the somewhat princely sum of $12.48.
The state brought me scribes
with the same pile of money
that it paid people to clean my bottom,
only it wasn't always aware of the transactions.

I did what I must
to be myself, follow my muse,
obey my own soul's song.
And I don't regret that choice
for even a moment.

One must seek freedom
however one can, with whatever one can.

On Friday
via UPS for just under $50,
came a miracle to my house.

Program frees me
the type at 2 AM
if the muse finds it amusing.

It learns my voice,
twisted though my words sound to most,
and saves my fingers,
which I had feared soon destined
for the surgeon's knife.

So pardon the poet
if she is momentarily giddy
at latest incarnation of strange –
often denied – word, "freedom."