Tag Archives: people

selections from In the Sierra: Mountain Writings by Kenneth Rexroth

The question is not
Does being have meaning,
But does meaning have being. Continue reading

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selections from Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich

No one ever said that you could work hard—harder even than you ever thought possible—and still find yourself sinking ever deeper into poverty and debt. Continue reading

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going downtown

an enormous cloud hangs over the city
as i walk up 2nd Ave smoking
the remnant of a good night, breathing
the rain-washed air of a good day.

i snap a picture of the cloud
with my phone, with my phone
pay the bus fare, sit in the last
square of four seats occupied by three
silent, independent women, each wearing
a distinct set of dark shades. mine barely
cover my eyes as i look south to see
the cloud retreating and the bright sun
emerging, blanketing everything.

suddenly, the three stages of consciousness
blind me:

first, squinting, measuring the luminosity,
cursing myself for forgetting a hat,
wondering about skin cancer, meditating on the family.
second, reasoning, realizing that by
slightly lifting my limb i can slow the effect
of aging. finally, believing,
breathing in, being,
eyelids down aware that death is
and will always be, so may as well
repose on the sunny side. Continue reading

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selections from This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs the Climate by Naomi Klein

4254681996_27b1ed7ff0 Continue reading

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let the words flow like fog

let the words flow like fog
from the abyss, instilled with meaning
only after traversing a million miles
across the mind, dizzy
with dreams.

let them hang low,
mingling among the trees,
buildings, people, fiends,
dampening and dimming
natural aversions.

let them grow long in lines
from sunrise to sunset to sunrise
hinting at stupor
through deserts of verdure
fueled by our favorite toxins.

dissipate — let them
when they will —
diadem of universal wisdom
pour forth like fate
from thy dripping, inky quill. Continue reading

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SAS 4

Stranger seem they who stomach the return when once intimate with their zenith of pleasure they had jettisoned away. Strangers to this strangeness seem stranger still, for they have yet to cast off.

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the spider on the sill—
a-swinging on her wheel—
a weave among the rain—attempting to be still.

the black, obedient dog—
our souls in analog—
a sniffing, listening creature wandering through the fog.

the fruit upon the table—
glowing brightly—nothing sable—
all yellow, orange, red—bleeding citrus staples.

the books with humble words—
in inky flocks like birds—
unfurling wise old wings that rhyme in lines of thirds.

the icy drinks in glass—
just buoyant bubbles, grass—
dissolving artsy minds in poetry with mass.

apes lounging in the kitchen—
some buying—selling—visions—
across the marketplace of psycho-stellar fission.

why not end it now—i say—fuck it—
let’s leave the seventh stranded in a lonely couplet! Continue reading

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favorites from The San Francisco Poets

DONNER PARTY by Richard Brautigan

Forsaken, fucking in the cold,
eating each other, lost, runny noses,
complaining all the time like so
many people that we know.

Continue reading

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selections from Turtle Island by Gary Snyder

Goal: Clean air, clean clear-running rivers, the presence of Pelican and Osprey and Gray Whale in our lives; salmon and trout in our streams; unmuddied language and good dreams. (94) Continue reading

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insomnia, therefore

there is an altar of sound in the Mojave Desert. it purrs painless, perfect—a midnight beacon beckoning.

attracted to its deep hum and bright lights, interplanetary pilgrims grapple their slow, shadowy way, seeking rhythm, love, divinity, nothing.

once they arrive, a juicy orange slice of moon rises to say hello, goodbye. antsy tongues wag in bags of mint, lapping up refreshingly ancient secrets. hips shake excitedly at their discovery, souls swing in arcing exultation.

in the morning, a half-naked hell of a hot mess stumbles thru center camp in a gazeless daze, meandering through people and sound and sand. half-shaved head to dusty little holes to rocky, glassy, torn-up toes, every cell in her body exuding madness. (love her.)

in the afternoon, a wavy pink pinstripe pussycat slinks from shade to shade hydrating himself with poetry. (praise him.)

at night, a brush with the grim reaper. (love her, praise him.)

day by day, the burning circle in the sky climbs higher, higher, higher, then dips down, down, down. hour by hour, a hundred billion white specks of plankton blindly drift the same mesmerizing path. minute to minute, morphing white specters glide, collide, unravel beneath the big blue canvas, unminded. moment to moment, men and women collectively recite their little disco mantra: 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4…

amid gunshots, fireworks, and constellations, confectionary gusts of earthy apes do their thing. Continue reading

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selections from I Was a Robot by Wolfgang Flür

So that was all he could say about Karl and me, after 16 years of passion and collaboration. We were nothing more than disposable robots to him. (255) Continue reading

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