Land takes its first drink of water in a good long while. Takes bites out of dust caking cars like pale rust across abandoned metal. Spits it out. Against the ground. Gifted back to brimming oceans like they needed it. As if they hadn’t seeded it. In swollen clouds breeding it. And how it came on perfectly too late. Filled it full of epidural and induced legs wide, to weep life through a wound and glimpse light coming too soon and painting hot pink across flaming horizons. We needed this rain. The hour was growing too late. Long past expected due dates. But we asked for it, we did not demand. We prayed, like we do not understand if it is God or Man we pray to. Besides, words don’t inspire worlds to cry. Dancing does. Imagining the rhythmic pattering of tear drops in clear plops bouncing oak paws and poplar claws and burnt maple stars alike. You hear it in your head. You thank it with your legs. You move to the music you want to, whether or not it is true. Besides, seeing you dance that way, like a fool, like you have affliction, is a far more promising method of drawing out musicians.
There is no revolution yet.
It’s a little foolish thinking otherwise.
So my advice is get a gym membership.
Take up camping. Hiking. Shed fat.
Build your legs. For now,
consider that revolution.
Isn’t it control alt delete? Wasn’t sure if you were freezing up on an old screen, I have to do that as well when what I’m looking at fails to update how I want it to.
Moving on, you really like paper work don’t you? Bureaucracy seems to have become more a philosophy in your movement. I mean it might be hard for you to see a person as a person without checking their driver’s license first, am I right? Something about their image and name and height and weight and birth date all on a little laminated card between fingers. That has to be an intriguing experience for someone who believes identity lives in skin.
But as far as race, that is not skin color, correct? I sometimes burn old magazines and newspapers to start fires, and every now and again this really interesting thing happens, where a book on fire will actually turn its pages as it burns. If you get a chance in the next few years, take a look at a science book or two as it gives you its dying attempt at seeding information anywhere other than solely on paper. We are all all races. You, white man, are an African. This is not climate change. This is not human ownership of such a process. This is not environmentalism. That is not disputed science. We have read our genetic code like it were some special form of government identification, and it read we all come up one continent. We have genetic codes for every color skin all wrapped up in ours. Look at it this way, the way you look is more about the doorway you passed through coming into the world, than the room you were in before you took a step forward. Those last few generations of skin color and nose shape and eye color and hair type, the tip of an iceberg of genetic information stored just beneath the surface. So you’re going to have to claim and build this identitarian ethic all on your own. It has no foundation in truth.
And gender. That is half your fucking species man. That is your mother. Your daughter. Your sister. Hopefully your friend. They don’t have to whoop you in an arm wrestling competition to convince you you don’t exist without them. We are equal by necessity you bozo. We represent that fact in pay, protections, access and respect, not because its right or a nice thing to do or a special gift for your lady. You do that because it is reality. Women are not an ingredient in the stew, they’re the fucking water you start with. They’re half the equation. You strengthen and improve their way of life, their self-esteem, the respect offered them by their society, you enhance the entire system in one fell swoop. You support half of all of our foundation when you right this equation. You might feel good when you buy her flowers. But give her your eyes as an equal, and you will see the superhero you’ve been keeping in the kitchen. She walks city streets having lived through your worst fears head high, shoes sharp, face painted. She has heard words, and felt pressures, and experienced pain you don’t know exist. Learn them. Gain a friend. An equal. Make our species whole. Keep the flowers. Make the world ours. Because it will die if it stays mine.
That being said, a little advice for your ethic. I would love to be hated for the color of my skin. For being a man. For some externally perceived categorical assessment of my identity. Puts me in the perfect place to practice powers you won’t believe exist in my category. Allows me access to so much more subversive development of ideas and plans. Get to know me, talk to me, even feign friendliness just to access some better, more nuanced understanding of the answers to who, and how, and why, and what for and what all I am, and more importantly, all I intend. To put it simply, empathy and consideration are keys to greater hate. Just saying. Try it. Even if the sole motivation is ‘how the hell can we hate these people just a little more effectively?’ But I get the feeling that’s not going to happen. Not while this nice neat little laminated card stock photo identification stays cradled between those peachy white well callused fingers. You don’t want to know me. You want the me that can be erased from the world by a pair of scissors. Which is why my movement will always be stronger than yours. You have numbers.
But we, the people.
There are people sitting in Washington, DC
praying the day never comes when someone like me
successfully spreads the message that until humans beings
have protected food, shelter, water access,
same as animals in National Forests,
by right and not by purchase,
we will never be free.
I am almost ready to express where I am with the recent election. This nation is divided. But not accidentally or happenstance. It is split up like a stump into a pile of firewood. Conservative wedge. Democratic hammer. People forced to, out of unending, choose between two.
Blame, ironically, is also a two party system. There are over three hundred million people in America. And a couple of privately operated, independent entities, convinced us to choose between two of them. What were true blue, lifelong Democrats supposed to do? How about Republicans, when every other option that ran ran off on them, clearing space for the saggy face of unmerited ego.
Blaming anyone for the direction in which they cast their fishing line last week is unfair, it’s misguided, and entirely intentional. Not a single one of us chose this fishing hole. And I can’t help but feel somebody knew it would come with a catch.
The men who founded this country were not enlightened so much as frightened by the prospect of democracy. It was really less a message of power for the people than it was about too much power for a king. They used democracy like a worm on a hook to catch the unending career opportunities offered up by republics. They did not know the celebrity culture that would take hold after just a few short centuries. The system they invented was like a cast put on the leg we busted trying to get out of the Great Britain bear trap. But it has become the clearest path to kingship left in America. And our celebrity culture has evolved into its own isolated form of incestual monarchy. What happened last week was just a sneak peek of what the future holds for elections in this country.
It is getting so difficult to hear arguments for representative solutions to apply to authenticated issues, over the sound of the phone in my pocket screaming how democracy is more possible today than ever before.
But to the people who made governing people into careers, democracy was never the goal. It is their greatest fear.
Republican loving it seeding democracy toppling on top of democratic dreams and socialistic schemes and people in love just want to be married before they’re buried and Russia pushing us like wet mouth dog Putin putting on fronts up at bat he bunts to make his run chasing such pain in the Ukraine just to get free lunch, sucker punch America she isn’t looking she’s out hooking payments for big daddy’s caddy and a golden elevator emboldened revelator.
With so much gravy in this country why can’t a man find any mashed potatoes.
I want to talk about something very personal to me. My ministry. The goals and aspirations and issues I am determined to take on during my time here. More so than words, stories, poetry, farm animals, forest time, hard labor, I am here to pastor. Like my father. Just without the collar. And I want to be called on way before you’re dead. Laid up in the hospital, so little by way of breath. I need you to know I am here for you right now.
I am afraid to die. This fact in no way means I run away from thoughts of my own demise. I converse with fear, and fear introduced me to start having words with death. I found that throughout developing that particularly morbid form of vocabulary, I have experienced massive improvements to my health. Both inside and out. And I can teach you to do it too.
You’re terminal. Best shape of your life. Still terminal. Happy day, birthday, first day, worst day. A period will chase the end of every sentence. And despite all your best efforts, you will give back to the ground everything you ever once took from it. To the exact measurement. Pound for pound. Best case scenario ends in a burial. Swallow that pill today because it will still be true tomorrow. No reason to wait for a doctor’s note, just know you are only made of temporary circuitry, hosted by eternal energy. And the day will come that breaks you.
Remember click knees, and wheezing, and watching loved ones leaving, and the gut-wrench realization they will never be back in the same way again. And feeling pain, and seering pain seeing pain grip others, smother mothers and bother fathers who will torture truth into newfangled shapes just so it less resembles the hands of men. Life is good. Just not all good. At some point, a bill comes chasing after all this fine food. There is no word to express thanks. All you can do is pay for it. And the moment you break the doorway through which you’ve pushed and led and forced so many others, you make yourself sinless. Wash your heart like death was a sink, and all your memories dirty dishes.
But if you go into the end with ‘dear lord why, anyone but me’ wishes, you just might receive them. Essentially, you’re sacrificing your first potential interaction with life’s chef just to tell it you like a free dinner the best. The creator of existence and potential. When every single day you’ve been eating things that were previously alive in order not to die. And the first chance you get to deposit back into that account, you scream and shout like you never once saw it coming. With hands together, shut-eyed in prayer over steaming chicken and blood-burdened burgers and vegetable wombs consumed seed-bearing and all. Straight out of soil. Telling the story of how tragic it is that you may have to go back in. Though you would rather send a thousand other martyrs like some kind of mortality barter, it is coming. The end of the sentence of your physical existence. And you can swallow that pill today to make a blessing out of tomorrow.
If you have trouble understanding what it is I’m trying to teach, please ask. I’m here. I’ll be keeping office hours for the next ten years, at least. Click knees. Nightly wheeze. Training soldiers in the war for peace. True to form child of God, and a child of God can not be bought. Though I do feel called to offer you a lease.
This morning I woke to the sound of so many minds clicking off. And while it is frightening to consider what all it took to turn them on in the first place, it was an uncomfortable feeling. Seeing hope only when it leads to victory. Treating someone else’s retrograde as your progress. If you didn’t see this coming, you and I have that in common. But thinking there was a fight to be had yesterday, and there isn’t one today, is not a thought we share. My mind is not clicking off, mostly because it turned on way prior to twenty sixteen.
This is it. These are the days our ancestors were obsessive over. This is the end of eras, and the birth of existence. Everyone in the world knows this man is not a candidate. Not a president. He’s an alarm clock. A morning reveille no amount of groaning or rolling over will deter. We’re awake now. We started stirring to laughter over the possibility of a controversial celebrity making a run for our nation’s big Grecian styled mansion. And by the time we took the thought of getting out of bed seriously, it was too late to stop it. That is not on you, or me, or anyone who cast a vote in this election, or anyone who didn’t. That is the fickle nature of representative government. We call this thing a popular vote. A popular election. We discredited candidates early on, not citing credentials, but their lack of likability and winning potential. We can say that to presidential candidates, though we would never say it to children. Yet we do, when we keep it as an institute.
A celebrity ran for president in a popular election and won. All I can think is, how the hell did I not see this coming. I laid down last night with this alarm set for myself. How there is always just enough time in an evening to forget morning will be born again at the end of it all, I do not know. There just is. The end of night seems determined to always come as a surprise.
And this morning, I woke to the sound of so many minds, for the first time, up early enough to see a sunrise.
I do a lot of stuff the hard way, stupidly. If I were you, I’d be careful about competing with me. I became a champion crawler long after I had already started to walk. Walking feet into miles when I could have been sprinting. And now, quicker and more surefooted than ever before, I’m at work practicing sitting still. Just to see how it feels. And why, out of all the many paces of my life, does this one seem most impossible. Perhaps it’s the only one no one prepared us for. Never received my warning how growing old can be so forlorning as to cause paralysis to perfectly healthy bodies. Frozen, mid-autumn, seventy degrees, locked knees and held breath. The end is a breeze, a blade, a fire like the fire we build to heat our homes. You crawling, walking, sprinting, are its legs. You carry it. Without you, these objects sit unmoved. Whether it’s something you came up with on your own, or if you were shown it, it helps to own it. Like the hard way. Like stupidity. A thousand reasons why no one else in the world does it that way. And one that keeps it yours.