Last night in downtown Portland Oregon I used to be a poet. So I thought. I impressed the lead beat at the hilltop coffeeshop in Georgetown Who said he was an atheist, then looked around the room to see who was shocked by his admission I used to weave words around fingers around crowds around music, and in and out of wind gusts, and off of the dark edge of moonlight And into the deep moorings of judgement And back again Proud of my self And the looks on their faces when I breathlessly spoke the last word of my poem. I wasn’t a poet at Stanford. The poetry teacher, bemused, took wind of my words and took wind from my sails and…. I didn’t fit into the mold. And yet That’s what poets are supposed to do, right? Buck the system Break the mold Change the world. But we didn’t. It’s twenty years later and here we are. In the streets again chanting and hoping. We were fearless then, we poets. And now must be again. The martyrs of that movem...
Late stage capitalism in the USA ... topics include: racial justice, climate change, pandemic politics and mutual aid