Let the Words

“This is the path that a Pennsylvanian man took to shoot and kill Magic. There was no justice. There was no reason.” All there are are rows and rows of houses. Like the streets of Selcuk. The wind is blowing a slight dust. The light is silvery and grainy. For some reason there is a kind of music in my head. The beginning lines are being said by a narrator. As if I am part of a movie. Or as if I am the Pennsylvanian man, who's shot Magic. I get to Magic's families house. I met this family before on a mountain. I was on it with Kent. It was an amusement mountain. Only. There weren't any rides. It was all about people hiking up to the top of the mountain and taking anything they could - bikes, moccasins, unicycles, inter tubes, one girl with a blown up dinosaur sitting on a castle with goggles and a mouth guard - Kent was there with me. At the base of the mountain, was a castle like structure that skirted the base of the mountain. There were showers and places for peopl

White boxes, three of them Now four. Back to three. Up to five and Down again. Frustration sets in. Face gets hot “Damn Rubik’s cube,” I say. The living room is full of family Full of death My uncle sits across from grandpa, their both Stout and have big lips just like mine Uncle Stan’s eyebrows are ruffled, muttering Humorously. Wooden puzzle pieces won’t fit Together for him. “Where’s my saw at there carpenter?” He says towards his cowboy boot, feather Earring wearing, dark skinned, thirty year old Indian looking son. We laugh, puzzles unsolved, pieces Jumbled on top of each other – Pushed aside. Cowboy Indian, shooting to be a genius plays Pegs, trying to jump down to one. “Got down to three – It says that's average.” He reads Indian lips trying to kiss the ceiling. We laugh, puzzles unsolved, pieces Jumbled on top of each other – Pushed aside. Grandpa’s puzzles not in his hands Stares off somewhere, wheezes through The cancer hole in his neck. His face wrinkled Looks hot, eyes

Its morbid. It's true. History books don't remember people – they remember figures and fallacies. The champions story. The champions limited perspective. The losers defeat. *** Karl carries his bronze metal with him wherever he goes – always in the right hand. To Karl, the medallion on its green and red necklace, is perfect. Is beautiful. Everyday Karl gets on the city bus hoping someone will ask him about it. No one ever does. Just yesterday, Karl tried to share his story to a dark skinned, sharply dressed man. But when Karl stood in front of him, motioning to his bronze metal, the man mumbled something about 'this being your seat. I'll move.' Karl sits up front. Alone. He stares out the window watching the blurry figures of Sitka Spruce sprint by. The bus driver is the only one that calls Karl by his name. The only one who actually speaks to him. “Morning Karl. Where's you're earphones today?” “Music is dead. Broken.” Karl points to his tape player. “Too

Big lip K boards the bus Bobbing to a new music player Smiles big at middle aged driver. She always happily greets, "Morning Karl." Every day. Every ride, Karl bears A bronze medallion on a green nylon Necklace, rubbing it with his calloused Thumb. Over and over. Obsessively. Every day. Every ride. Carefully Karl ambles to a seat upfront He stops. Stares and stares, blankly. Kindly black man shuffles and coughs "This your seat?" Blank, distant stare. Yellow dashed Lines wiz by. The bus rocks and creaks The smell of diesel and urine. Awkward Confrontation tastes of chalk. People Pretend, staring at the blur of the world Casting quick peripheral glances to Karl Now the kindly black man. Cough. Black man stands and moves Silently to the back of the bus Karl sits. Bobbing. Staring. People shift, yawn, chew nails Thinking of what Karl has won to Get that bronze metal

Representative Murkowski, Greetings from Juneau, Alaska! This is Forest Kvasnikoff. I am a young, lifetime, resident of Alaska, and I am writing you to ask for your continued support and championing of Senate Bill 1756. As you may know, in the month of April the University of Alaska Southeast in conjunction with the Hiroshima Peace Museum, the Marshallese government, The Leighty Foundation, Juneau People For Peace, Juneau World Affairs, Juneau Veterans For Peace, and a Seattle based educational program called Voices in Wartime, all worked together to sponsor and put on a Nuclear Awareness Conference. There were speakers throughout the United States including: Victoria Samson, a ballistic missile specialist; Andrew Himes, Voices in Wartime promoter; and Shegeko Sasamori, a survivor of the Hiroshima bombing and currently a California resident. In addition to these speakers, were guests and powerful speakers on behalf of the Marshallese people: Mayor James Matayoshi, Lijion Eknilang, and

A few weeks ago, while Juneau residents enjoyed the first rare glimpses of sunshine and warmth, a few speakers from the Marshall Islands and throughout the United States came to share survivor stories of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and nuclear testing in the Marshall Islands. They also detailed technical accounts of nuclear testing in the Marshall Islands and gave presentations that spoke to the human elements entailed in war and conflict. Few here in Juneau got to hear the testimonies or take in the highly detailed accounts that transpired. Out of the plethora of information and insights that could be taken from the Nuclear Awareness Conference, there is one that I think all Alaskans, indeed, all Americans, need to take heed - Senate Bill 1756. The bill is the first step in the reparations that still have not been given to the Marshallese people. More than 60 years passed after the U.S. government's 67 nuclear tests, which obliterated Marshallese home lands and displaced peop

We meddle in all things and seem to be disappointed at every turn. All objects touched with our hands are fleeting and fading. Beach rolled green glass from sorrowful bottles and fisherman buoys are smooth chapters with rough tales of sunny days and crushing blows with cobble stones. Standing on the shore we smell these salty sweet stories playfully swirling in summer winds. But all is memory now. Seasons and sights buried in pages already written. So we continue to write. Trying to forget. Furiously scribbling new images and tastes. Eating pages with tears and blood, consuming our lives. Desperately trying to forget. Move on. Be a better man or woman or what-have-you. Entries of you are obscure encyclopedic passages full of holes and incompletes – novels could have been written – that's what I whispered, skipping gray stones off a milky green glacier ocean. It will dreamily subside, flipping drunkenly to sandy floors, leaving Dungeness crab and white jittery shrimp philosophizing

Karl is crazy. Whatever that means Every morning - sun or drizzling rain or Sloppy snow or dazzling fluff and early Fog in mind and air - Karl rides with me. He doesn’t know my name. He waves at Me wildly and absently sometimes. I nod Awkwardly and afraid – silence and avoidance Is the culture of public transportation Where most hide behind their eyes Living or simply dying beneath Their muteness and sterile composure Karl flops his tongue out in contemplation And frustration Karl wears earphones. Everyday. Listening (I suspect) to the same Beige colored tape. Everyday. He bobs and rocks, hums and follows Passing trees and people, while our bus Clumsily stops and goes. Stops and Goes. Everyday. Karl’s tape player died this morning. Opening the battery enclosure he carefully Removed and replaced the batteries Flopping out his tongue and licking his Lips in quiet, intense, methodology Click-Click. Wait. Click-Click. No music. No Nothing. Silence. Karl examines the tape. Shakes It by his

This is not for me It simply won't do I've got words for you Ages have past with murders Slanders and deadbeats raping Women, now Peasants, now Gypsies, Now Christians, now Pagans, now Jews, Now Savages, now Niggers, now Chinks, Now Japs, now Poles, now Dagos, now Commies Now Dogans, now Huns, now Flips, now Wetbacks, Now Crackers, now Fags, now Dikes, now Liberals, Now Conservatives, now Kaffirs – Who? Dune Coons! Wogs! Rag Heads! Camel Jockeys! Womanizers! Muslims, I say! Muslims! Muslims! Muslims! Terrorists! The whole lot! Everyone of them a Plague, a disease, a stain, an abomination, an Extremist, a corruption, a killer, a sinner, a Sickness, a cancer, a blight, a felon, a con, an Infection – Marked as the Sons and Daughters of Cain Himself. Such is the cycle of hate A deep seated island of humor Laugh as I do. Please. Smirk at The silliness of humanity. Quite the irony. Quite the joke. Within this mist, dwelling on Stick figure women, their Breasts and their wallets, bodi

The doctor doesn't seem to understand. Says I'm off. Not quite right. Thin sheets are always talking to me. Voices of old French philosophers and Pompous Englishmen discussing some Colorless Male Burden. Killings and Sexings have been whispered Across candle light by thin wild haired Depressed Americans who rock menacingly Staring at the sky. Waiting for black birds Eyeballs and blood Baritone Black men tell me about blues Grassroot hallucinations speaking through Hazy browns and chaotic melodies "Jazz," she says, "Strange Fruit," She Says. Women talk of the domestic This fucking wallpaper That fucking husband Doctor just doesn't seem to understand. I refuse to enter a library until all these Voices wait their turn

Earth moist and sweet Damp and cool, giving Way to yearly spring rain Indecision. Rain, sleet, snow Rain Bury me in this moment of Life and frenzied growth Wrap me in sopping green Blankets of Earth Let me live in dreams Beneath the Earth Buried under soft moss

Big heavy snow flakes fall so silently and indifferent. Brown and black bears have hidden away, sleeping, dreaming of summer salmon and berries. Dirty mountains, once green, fatten at their apex with snow, beckoning gray dimness for months to come. Years ago, the Housing Authority built all the heathen savages real homes. Rectangles. Dark, shit brown, fake wood paneling. No Carpet. Cheap Ivory colored linoleum. In one of the long hallways – alright the only hallway – sits a 70s style furnace. It exploded with a warning "tick," and burst into a roaring oil sucking dragon in a matter of moments. It was an exchange. The American Father and his Son's told the Son's and Daughters of the Raven or the Kwatee or the Wendego to leave. Go. Walk this trail to your new home. Foundations for our homes are no longer simply the earth, but dead wood and rocks from lands not our own. We've traded homes. Welcome to your brand new shit brown rectangle. The side paneling was

Breath escapes like ghosts Pavement is glittered with Frozen speckles of moisture Walking steady. Hours Pass. Mars flashes silver and crimson Milky Way sways dreamily Smiles fantastically Looks like the frozen speckled Highway Walking steady. Hours pass. Sitka spruce pray silently in Dark shadows while headlights Roar and blind by Walking Steady. Hours pass. City lights cast hazy oranges Thunder Mountain sleeps massively Majestic Walking Steady. Hours Pass. Dead and dormant alders and willows Skeletons of seasons passed, shiver With winter winds Walking Steady. Hours Pass. Welcome Home.

In the first days of Autumn, before bright leaves began to fall, Daniel purposely severed off his pinky finger. "Fucking Christ!" he screamed, while trying to hack through the bone with a dull machete. "Jesus!" Thwack. "FUCKING." Thwack. "Christ!" Thwack. "Sweet." Thwack. "Lord." Thwack. "WHY!" Thwack. "Ahh. Theeere she is." Daniel brought the finger to his lower lip and gently rubbed. "So soft and smooth." He whispered, "So cool. So wonderful." A steady stream of blood pitter patted on the grey wet cement. It swirled with the falling fresh rain – a psychedelic flexible dance. He smiled dreamily and held up the pinky like an Olympic torch. Daniel ran. Hard heated heavy breathing. Splash – Thump, Thump – Splash – Thump, Thump. He needed to get to the post office before it closed, it was nearly six o'clock. Maple trees danced a crazy dance with the wild whirling

I tripped on stupidity yesterday Its name was Human Greed. Rousing myself After the fall I wept at Greed's Beautiful feet. Plated In gold, engraved with A note "Men are cruel, man is kind."

Ryan gazed past the thin snow covered undergrowth of the stunted forest. Through the branches, the ocean teemed and tossed under a peach winter sunset. His face hot, tingly and numb. He breathed, making clouds in the crisp air. The island was silent. Ryan's parents and his sister, Mary, went out to pull crab pots for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner. Wetness and wisps of steam glistened off his burning face. Out behind his father's fishing and hunting gear shack, Ryan found an old rope. The rope had been coiled up and left to rot under leaves and seasons, too old and brittle to be used as an anchor line anymore. Ryan sawed at the wiry rope with his silver Leatherman, giving himself about ten feet of line. Bits and pieces of frozen seaweed and jellyfish hugged at sections of the rope. Ryan smelled low tide. Ryan clenched at the salty, stiff, sun-washed rope as he coiled the line around the inside of his palm and outer elbow. He searched for his parent's skiff plowing

Standing here at this Goddamn grave I realize you've never even given me a chance, never gave yourself a chance, always drowning yourself in those fucking brown bottles, looking for light, finding nothing but piss warm dark corners, people passing you by, staring at your insanity, and there you are, looming out those beautiful green eyes, dumb and lost, a stray wet dog, begging for a reason, pleading for answers, trying to remember how things got this way, was it the green wool uniform or what it made you do, was it grandpa's belt and his Budweiser or aunties screams after bouts with Jack's bottle or the sons and daughters you never raised, what, what was it, tell me, I want you to tell me that you remember the good times, before I tossed this cold wet dirt over your shiny blue casket, do you remember the puffs of baby powder that were padded over my buck naked body because of that itchy red rash, you called me a sad looking turkey, laughter was your thing, that's what

A history has unfolded before our eye's that needs to be told. It is a history that entails a government that has apparently manipulated and twisted peoples fears to conduct a war on premises that later turned out to be an unqualified falsification of the facts – the truth about this war revolves around intensions of political maneuverings, greed, and grotesque perpetuations of an imperialistic "democracy." The history which has unveiled itself under the current administration has proven itself as one in which corruption, ineptitude, deceit, hate, and freighting displays of political mongering, are common, even accepted, practices and precepts. The history of our time has shown, over and over again, that our press and media's integrity has quickly eroded at the feet of corporate interests for profit, rife with political slants which contort and strangle any relation to reality. We are left hearing and watching programs which falsify facts (or completely avoid them) an

A struggle ensued, which now has passed. There is sweat. Feet and rock and sweat. Now wind and chill. A panorama of snow splotched mountains. Forever peaks. Endless ecstasy blow brisk winds. There is sweat, once sticky and hot, now slimy cold clams. This height is thunder. Electric cliffs of life are Grandfathers' faces These rocks are hunger. Barren black and white rocky ridges Eat passing feet Here is art. Ruffled blankets of earth After peaceful sex

Northern California sunshine, so bubbly brilliant, begins to dive behind a friendly horizon, promising to be back soon. The sky becomes a thick wet blanket. Droplets of water form on rivulets of freshly cut grass spreading its tranquil suburban scent like withering flowers on grandmothers' windowsills. Staring up at the thickness called night, it becomes sticky black licorice. Its sandy bitter sweet flavor rolls in the sheets of my mouth. A treat for some. Tastes of shit to me. I hate it. We had left the warm sanctuary of pine rafters and stained glass panes into the dew veiled field. Damp, cold and empty, save for the slow shuffling of feet that now wondered around for a place of prayer or silence or both. Kneeling in the grass, a congregation of sad contemplative souls trapped in their own deep wells of sin and guilt, shuffle by as face cards of Hoyle – unremarkable and repeating in different shades of black and red. A dark splotch of water forms on my blue jean knees and spread

Black oil for wings and curiosity for eyes stares furiously at our blindness, unforgiving and benevolent like God's loving wrath at our own destructive ways. Before taking flight, covering the light of the world, he, she, it, sweeps all things within a sleek outstretching of trickery and deceit – all in humor and indifference has the world been founded, explosions and genocide notwithstanding. Born on the flight of dark wings land is torn from water and history begins to end itself. Unlike his murderous cousin, Raven is simply an unkindness. "Newton, Mr. Gravitation and reason, was a quack alchemist bent on making shitty metals in to gold and convincing himself that God actually gave a shit. You know, order and harmony, something like Adam Smith and capitalism, he'd be a fucking manic depressive, cutting himself up the river if he realized the harmony of that goddamn theory. Marx was a tyrannical economic philosopher who, just like all the other fuckers, slapped around and

A box sits on freshly mowed grass Seldom seen faces stand like gray monks Praying Ceaselessly glooming at the grounds The box is a coffin of roughly hewn pine The faceless, formless, cold figure within Once flowed like warm creamy sand between Wandering hands on some sunny days A loss like pain or fear or both Flows like flood plains in May A face becomes a Red canyon Of roaring sorrow – it bellows and heaves Tortured contemplation A whisper – "I'm sorry" A whisper that becomes a troubled rocking "I'm Sorry" A whisper between troubled rocking that Sears and shakes as wind does within the Wooden valley – "I'm Sorry" "I'm Sorry" "I'm Sorry" Hands grasp and scratch at The Hollow Pine Snot like hot corn syrup Smears Across the bitter sweet smelling pine Steady heaving Deep troughs of the ocean Toss and crash upon lonely shores Cascading and drowning itself Over and over Only broken by a whisper Hands that grasp and scr

God has come and the rain has fallen… We pray for sun – forgetting the Kisses of life giving, comforting rain Chilling bodies but not souls Nor the earth beneath our feet Granting us all these enchantments A whispering rain off the ocean water tells Secrets we've long forgotten The playful gray-black splotched seal Has not forgotten – their faces popping Above the churning green surface as a Toddler that's just begun to walk Pulling their full soft faces over ledges Just to high for a giddy blissful gander The graceful but awkward Cormorant has Not forgotten, as it glides itself above The rolling swells – settling in on its Floating ocean home Free, Graceful, Home Gray Cobble stones roll and whisper With the rain and waves Unthinking but remembering in a way A thousand stories could they tell of Rainy days long forgotten A bear, invisible to me, saunters Un and down Pine treed hills Paws softly, rhythmically, passing Upon these mossy sweet wet hills Its not forgotten drops of r

I heard the call of distant disaster... The days have streamed by now as in a haze. Time has made it so. Shadows were the way once. By their height and their wanderings, people knew, they felt, the passing of days. It was not time once. Time never was but always is. Escape. Uproot. Words spoken long forgotten. How you wish you were there. The chime of the clock and the stabbing of the spear. The flow of water from all that we hold dear. Blasphemy. Death. Resurrection. And death again. Constantly consuming without regard. When we wonder upon the wasteless earth, the supple fruit of its beauty, all trodden under our own ambition. Thought. Idea. They make it so. We wonder without recognition of things holy. Cocks and tits. There is the rub. The wishes and the wells of humanity. Caught between the sweat and the moans of all glories and deceit. Wanting pleasure, a fleeting thing. One that slips between our fingers like memories. Sawdust. A cross cut down falls in the city, no one hears it.

Welcome to my world This world of people who purposely untie there shoes To bend over, baring their ass to the world To get the big commercial fuck just "one more time" This is my world A world of people who cross and bow before Christ In hopes to ascend to heaven after jacking off to E! Television and another one of J Lows music videos This world Is full of people searching for life riches in Jack's Bottle, only to find cold porcelain of vomiting death Shit, and pubic hairs staring them in the face Yes this is the real world Real people playing reality roles hoping For the sweet snatch of fortune to save their Sorry excuse for their mere shadow of ambition An adorned world Rampant with drooling greed for the neighbors Wife, car, boat, big screen TV, six year old girl Of whom they don't know the fucking name Close your doors, lock your windows The blood of ignorance is coming for you Let the shadow pass by as in Passover Then burn your fucking houses to the ground

Fuck Dixon and Griffin Their brotherhood with Wilson Fuck Their Nation A Birth of solemn Strange Fruit I wail and weep at their White deserts of morals I curse and spit at these White deserts of morals I bleed their hatred onto White deserts of morals I hate I hate beyond torment and rage Hate without screaming rape Hate that burns without flame A hate that is silent and unquenchable Fuck Dixon - his white cloaks Fuck Griffin - his white Black face Fuck Wilson - his white Freedom Fuck Their Hate and their white oaths I ignite the crosses they bare Murder their white Christ Suffocate their Birth A child without innocence Smothered with impunity... I see you in me but Fuck relativism - I hate I see you in me so Fuck you - I forget This Hatred I see you in me This Hatred you bred With your Birth you die - it dies This hatred - gone Forgotten - not remembered Thoughtless winds blow your white deserts or morals Into the desolate white Never know - Never uttered

Smoking, I stand on my porch watching the wind thrash at a dying cotton wood. It's noble looking in its annual death, a skeleton of a life that once was – even so short. Endless oranges and reds are torn from it – igniting the gray sky in a flurry of death. No screams, no sorrow – just the emotionless wind that tosses my hair and sets free my dear motionless friend from life. A life revolving around growth and color – nothing more, how I wish a death was so tranquil, perhaps serene, just a common step, and yet in my mind it is not. The color of my life, or the grayness thereof, will fall just as these leaves but will I take it in such an orgasm of color? Will the winds of time and life be violent or calm – colors floating listlessly to the ground or ripped in anger from my dying limbs, to be blown about in chaos, confusion, to be forgotten in the haze of a wintry death? Snubbing the smoke, I climb down to the tree. Putting my face to the cold life-death skin – its rough, smells of

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