farce of july

I wrote this for the fourth of July holiday which marks a symbolic beginning of the amerikkkan empire. thought it was appropriate as we “celebrate”the election of another white supremacist dictator. 

explosions, fire

car alarms blaring

almost reminds me of

Oakland on jan 22nd

when police threw

tear gas, and flash bombs. 

but today people


celebrate the day of

institutionalized colonialism, 

the beginning of Empire, 

legitimization of genocide/slavery.

people want to deny, 

want to believe

in the beautiful patterns

and colors in the sky

and some just want to play

with explosives. 

I say we aim those at

the state

turn this all around… 

explosions, fire

against Empire

rhythms of the moon

hi y’all sorry it’s been a few days. too many extrovert days need to be followed by hibernation and sleep.

here’s on I wrote on a camping trip in July as the sun rose. since I was young the rhythms of the moon have always tugged at me..

the moon pulls at me

with its rhythmic heartbeat

resonated in the sounds of

the ocean waves

The sun emerges

as the moon stretches across

the sky

rises to greet a new day

The wind joins the sun

and together they whistle

a new reality 

as the waves beat against

the sand

It is within the heartbeat

I find hope

hope the new reality

will she’d old oppressions

and find new revolutions

brilliant stars

to continue and begin I dedicate my first poem to all those who never showed their art.. for those who are artists but were never famous.

what of all the poems

never published?

all the hidden journals,

notes in a box.

scribbles on napkins

saved drafts on laptops

whispers in the brain

What of all the artists

never recognized?

all the brilliant stars

shining minds

creative mystics

chameleon writers

sultry musicians

Most of us black, brown

femme, queer, trans

How much have we lost?

How much has it cost us

to ignore the art of

those not heard?

their art is not without

It sleeps into the energies

of the universe

and breeds rebellion

with every stroke and breath

to the ones before

art in words or pictures or whatever from chosen is so important to our well-being and our growth as persyns in a fucked up oppressive world. often the stories that are told are stories by white, straight cis men. those are not stories that have inspired me. rather it is the stories of those who have gone through shit that have pushed me to want to express myself. I begin this poetry blog with the memories of all my writer ancestors: audre lorde, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldua and all the others; never forgetting the countless who never made their work public.

I’ll be trying to post a poem a day… will start of with a couple lines from akasha hill

“whether we speak or not,

the machine will crush us to bits

and we will also

be afraid”