March 2011

(A dream. Interpretations welcome!)

We’re all shivering. We’re all in this cold together.
The one you’d think be’d shiverin’ ain’t.
The kid is still as stone, standing across from us backed up against a wall that used to hold up a barber shop’s roof.
His words of explanation are over and he’s got the idea now that he’s good as gone, and sure nuff he is and he’s dead on his feet soon as our razors run across him enough.
I picture some Roman Senate Bum Rush in slow motion.
The kid’d been a snitch. Most likely. Chances are.
Loose Lips, Man.

We take his parts to the rich neighborhood.
Trash take out day and all. Then there’s nothing. Just our drunk waning.

Head off to The House. The Factory.
Place is full of cartons, smells bad enough that all our breath gets shallow until we’re finally so used to it—its all in our clothes and skin any ol’ way—that we start breathin’ again. Through cigarettes.
Factory Man. The Maker. He’s cookin’ up right now. Clad all in his bullet proof.
Kevlar pants, Man. A helmet. SWAT issue. Is he afraid of some raid or hisself blowin’ hisself up?

Nevertheless. Nevertheless. An aluminum bat comes out. And then the shootin’ starts up. After we’d got him good and high. His bulletproof everything works prettygood. He’s screaming like for hours and I’m imagining the scene from RoboCop when Murphy gets his from the bad end of like five shotguns.

We’re dumb. We torch the house before cleanin’ it out. We’ll regret that silently to ourselves in the morning when thought returns. But now we’re just runnin’ doing little spins to look back and the fire is jumping into the trees and the garage.

We lay out. In a broken building. Its only identity is Smells Like Urine. In the Southside somewhere. Counselor starts talking from the dark, says he’ll help me if I want it. Help me from what? I gotta admit I am wrong he says. I laugh at that.

Someone’s spotted that kid’s gang—that kid who’s residin’ in four different garbage cans. They’ve spotted us. Somebody screams out and I don’t even look, I’m just out across the alley and down the storm drain.

Before the Sun comes up I double back and see they’ve got my gang held up in his chain link fence under the highway and I sneak with razor in hand and I step with bare feet! on a dead seagull. I think: ‘Seagulls ain’t just for beaches no more.’

My friends’ve been given LSD and poison and are trippin’ and dyin’ in equal measure. Their pain is visible ‘cuz  get sympathy trip and I barely hang on to life myself. They’re given razors and they start shavin’ up their faces. They light up in blossoms of jagged esoteric symbols I see. I think they’re blood-smoke-signals to gods of their own immeasurable pain.

Young kids are circled around a fire and they’re talkin’ like big stuff tryin’ hard to not act like they’re wanting to be sick with all that noise and they’re young and sayin’ stuff like “I figured out Capitalism.” and other little kids nod.

In all this I break in on the scene frothing up and staggering and howling somethin’ stupid and like a filmstrip breaking I’m snapped up and I see stripes of me falling away on razors like lightning.



breathe receive
wind loam
root sun

i am am not

i arise from many
tree grass moss
i arrive from afar
seed blossom thorn
i demise ever
termite aphid fungus

impartial embrace
manifold manifest
repose awake

i am am not

As reported by the US Energy Dept, the US consumed 18.8 million barrels of oil a day in 2009.

That’s just a number so it may be hard to know if that’s a lot.

Well, it means that every day in 2009 the US used more oil than

When we think about ‘which country is best prepared for the transition to non-carbon transportation and economy?’
the US does not fare well right now.
There is no better time to discuss with your politicians the issues of transitioning out of a culture of oil.

breath upon breast
slow in sleep
drinking in dreaming

Sujata Sujata
giving mother

grace of gods
child of charity
life from love

Sujata Sujata
grateful recipient

bowl of buttermilk
gift of gruel
travelling to temple

Sujata Sujata
worshipful pilgrim

sees one sitting
humble and hungry
frail and fragile

Sujata Sujata
open hearted

bowl under banyan
meal to mendicant
feast at feet

Sujata Sujata
giving mother

Hana Surf Girls is not your ordinary surf doc. It is an illuminating film that shares the stories of two amazing young women from a small Hawaiian village called Hana.
In equal parts it is a coming-of-age film that shows how Lipoa and Monyca balance their goals, family, love of surf, community all with grace and the Aloha spirit.

I feel that Hana Surf Girls is a great film for young people because its stars are great role models, but it is a film for all audiences. Surfers will become enchanted with the people, landscape, and surf of Hana and anyone who has ever dreamed big and felt the rush of following their heart will connect to the women’s big spirits.

Movie Site:

Movie Premiere:


Monyca Byrne-Wickey’s Nike 6.0 page:

I heard you dance at the doorway
kicking at the heels of shoes
until they scatter like chickens at feed

you still smell of the trees
the alive ground wet trodden
again a dalliance of cigarette

your hair at its many parts
reveals shorter hair surely
a sign of your growing

there is smell of scalp
the struggle of sweatshirt
the wet of a missed autumn bus

all chaff and embers
those enclosures of care
that kitchen quiet while your sleep

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