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