UMass/Amherst: The Arts of Protest Series [Oct23]

2012 Arts of Protest Series Presents:

Public/Poets and Protest/Space: A Discussion with Four Occupy Poets,

                       Tuesday, October 23, Machmer E-23, 6:00pm.

Travis Holloway is a Goldwater Fellow in Poetry at NYU and a Ph.D. Candidate in Philosophy at SUNY-Stony Brook. He was a Fulbright Scholar to Germany in 2010-11 for a dissertation entitled “How to Perform a Democracy” and, upon his return to the United States, organizer of the first “Poetry Assembly” at Occupy Wall Street. His primary interests include democracy, poetics, and the relationship between public art and social media. His recent work has appeared in The Nation, Guernica, and Symposium, on C-SPAN, and in the co=authored book, Occupying Wall Street: The Inside Story of an Action that Changed America (OR Books, 2011).

Paul McLean is an artist accomplished in new media and traditional fine art, a pioneer in dimensional production and integrated exhibit practice. He has exhibited in one-man and collective shows extensively since 1986, and is currently represented by SLAG Contemporary Gallery in Bushwick (Brooklyn, NYC). His research interests include media philosophy, specifically pertaining to time and systems; individual and collective expression; and the convergence of 4D methodologies among military, political, business and social sectors. McLean holds a B.A. in English with a Fine Art concentration from the University of Notre Dame (South Bend, IN), two Masters degrees from Claremont Graduate University (MFA in Digital Media, Masters of Arts & Cultural Management) and is currently a doctoral candidate at the European Graduate School in Saas-Fee, Switzerland. He is a contributing writer for the Brooklyn Rail and other publications and has been blogging since 1999. McLean has been a co-organizer of Occupy with Art since September 2011, and is a founding member of the Occupational Art School Node #1 in Bushwick. He creates moving images for projection, art environments and the web; net.art, web and print graphics; paintings and drawings; poems, commentary fiction and non-fiction.  McLean lives and works in Bushwick.

Letta Neely is a Black dyke artist, feminist, and mother. She is originally from Indianapolis, IN where she survived the busing experiments of the 80’s. In the mid 90’s, she lived in New York City where she was a member of the Black Star Express Collective and taught poetry to youth in the five boroughs. She currently resides in Boston with her wife, niece, and daughter. Letta explores the various textures, technologies and intersections of race, sex, sexuality, class, gender, economics and liberation in her daily living.  Hence, her work focuses most intently on the connections and intersections of queerness, blackness, and awareness. 

Letta is also teacher, poet, playwright and freelance writer whose books Juba and Here were finalists for the Lambda Literary Awards. In addition, Here was a Triangle Award finalist. She has been New York Fellowship for the Arts recipient (1995), a finalist for both the Massachusetts Cultural Council Poetry Fellowship (2002) and the Astraea Lesbian Writer’s Award (1999).  Ms. Neely is a two time winner of the OutWrite National Poetry Slam (1996, 1998) and in 2001 she was named the Best Local Author by Boston Phoenix readers. Her work has been included in various anthologies, literary journals and magazines such as: Through the Cracks; Sinister Wisdom; Common Lives, Lesbian Lives; Rag Shock; African Voices, Rap Pages, Catch the Fire ,Does Your Mama Know, The World in Us, Best Lesbian Erotica 1999, and, Roll Call—a Generational Anthology of Social and Political Black Literature & Art. Her play Hamartia Blues which was produced by the Theatre Offensive in 2002 has been nominated for two IRNE awards.  A second play, Last Rites, received a staged reading with the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles, CA and a world premiere production with The Theater Offensive at the Boston Center for the Arts. In 2011, Neely was awarded a fall residency with the Garderev Center and was a finalist for the Brother Thomas Fellowship. Currently, she is a recipient of the 2012 Winter Creation Fund Award from the National Performance Network and along with The Theater Offensive, a grant recipient from NEFA’s Expeditions program.

April Penn is a Boston-area poet who frequents the Cantab Poetry Lounge and has been involved in Occupy Boston protests. She is a member of the Boston Feminists for Liberation and considers herself a poetry blogging fiend with plans to write 365 poems a year for the rest of her life. She originally hails from Hammond, Louisiana and Baltimore, Maryland but loves Boston best of all! She has been published in Amethyst Arsenic, Snake Oil Cure, and Spoonful. 

OAS Node n: Alessandro Ambrossini's ~SEEYOURSOULWITHATELESCOPE~

[From Ale/OAS Node n]:

Dear Playaz;

Please welcome to our Fibonacci Arena a Italian artist, Mr. Ambrossini! he has a beautiful project called ~SEEYOURSOULWITHATELESCOPE~ which seems incredibly similar to Kaleidoscope, right #jez3prez? :-) it is a project filled with poetry, inviting people to share their greatest dreams. not  consumerist, not necessarily dreams you dream at night but rather dreams that keep you awake and actually keep you going. #OWS is such a dream for many of us, this pluripotential space where we our dreams together trying to make them a reality.  ∞ to ooze #poiesis! ∞  always… :: here is a brief summary ::

~SEEYOURSOULWITHATELESCOPE~

a dream weaver, a dream catcher.   
with a few words (200-400 words) can you share your utmost dream? I believe that dreams can help people and maybe they can change the world a little bit, specially when dreamt together.  if you want you can add some image or video that illustrates your hypothetical, possible or impossible dream ~ even write a poem about your dream. or dreams. 
Would love to have dreams from #OWS. can you share it with me and the world? 

he is a little shy about his English, but there is no need to be shy here my friend. Rafa also speaks Italian pretty well, you guys should definitely Skype! 

He draws and does other media as well. i was thinking about the incredible combo #OAS node 1 + Direct Action Flaneurs + Occupied Stories? :-)  

anyway, let’s make it happen. #OWS could use some dreams to get a bit of #poiesis back on our movement.  

Ale! 

∞

Update on Monday, September 24, 2012 at 10:57PM by admin

Here's my dream…if it is of interest send it along, anywhere...

solidarity,

Chris

Up

Flocks of tamed pigeons

float from a tunnel painted

on the mountainside,

Boulders push their bellies

into the morning light, pear

trees ride the tall grass…

Out on the bay, icebergs drag

their skirts in the summer haze.

Houses slip inch by inch into

the sea as if afraid of the cold.

Occasional breezes stir

The ash and soot falling

In clouds from the east

Somewhere and when they do

The sunlight spotlights

A fellow stepped off the cliff’s

Edge, his legs churning mid-air—

no forward progress, no sudden drop…

Bullets stop at eye-level,

Red clouds pause overhead,

He walks on, not looking

Down, pushing his weight

Into the emptiness that suspends

Him. Pigeons watch with the blank

tranquility of sleep as another

and another steps off, as if

the air beneath their feet held

not space or force or grim

prospects but another kind of

obvious, something worth

the risk of losing , while

others rest…What does it take

to step off the cliff’s edge

when so much is falling:

houses dropping, towns

vanishing in a red sea...

A loud noise sends the flocks

Flying back into the painted dark,

A sudden storm shreds the paper

World, but those who occupy

The edge, the free air, and

The horizon beyond are as

light as baby's breath...

When will they come down?

Maybe soon, maybe never.

Maybe it doesn’t really matter

So long as they persist,

Keep at it, keep going,

Not look up, not look down,

But ahead, taking to air,

everywhere.

Telling Stories [Novadic poem-image exchange]

This is my response to Kerry, but more fittingly a response to [Paul's] sending those photos. So a slideshow, of a sort, in return. Thanks for sending me back to Boston and the Cape. - Chris

​[Poem by Chris Moylan. Photos by Paul McLean (ca. 1984).]

Telling Stories

The coast was late in arriving

For that sudden sunset,

so we invented a new far away,

beautiful, well preserved,

like a bible newly translated

from a long winter’s sleep.

 

Last Breaths

What did we expect? a paper

airplane gliding like a gloved

finger over dust…a conclusion

comforting, almost inaudible

amidst the date palms

And ghosts in the varnish…

 

Anticipation

Sadness so evening kitchen,

so dirty dishes and ice chips,

so twist-off  bottle of Ginger Ale…

clouds gathering kindling

from what’s left of the treeline

to burn what’s left of sleep…

Regrets and disappointments…

Everything addled, a bit

Off kilter, too bright, and

too dark at the same time…

All the windows thrown open,

Flocks of heron, egrets come through.

 

Crosswords

Pills and crumpled napkins,

breakfast crumbs, newspapers

Baking in the oven… Pat telling

stories that don’t fit together;

words come first, then the puzzle,

then the empty spaces.

 

Last Day

On television an old man

Talking to an empty chair, other

Old men bobbing like cut bait

For Leviathan to clear the air…

This is Florida. I can’t wait

To get out of here…

A few families on Bonita Beach

Paralyzed by the sun. Stillness

Everywhere. Within the stillness,

A slight rise and fall on the bay

That pulls freighters into the haze

Does God read my mind?

Maybe, maybe not.

Pat has only a few days

and I am content to sit here,

mind empty, more or less,

no memories, no lists, no tasks,

just stillness and sand,

mind read, contents emptied...

Occupy II: A Poem by Christopher Moylan

Chris reading this poem at Cinema Arts Centre Sky Room, July 25 

Occupy II

So much is missing,

where did it all go?

The gaps in the story

Are the story.

The hole in the map

Is the route home…

The lack of law

Is the law now.

The rot in the house

Is the foundation stone.

We owe everything

To nothing— nothing

Clothes, nothing cars,

Nothing toys.

Nothing circulates in

the blood like lead.

Next to nothing is all

For an unheard, uncounted,

unwanted, jobless,

futureless dread.

Everyone is going home

All the time, why

don’t we get there?

Everyone is speaking

In code, lines, rhymes, why

don’t we make ourselves clear?

Do we know what we want?

know what we lost? know

the bill for all those homes and

jobs, this corrosive anger, fear?

What is a life worth?

What is a heart worth?

What is a child worth?

A sick child? A poor child?

Any price, any sacrifice,

Or what the market will bear?

Free enterprise has ripped

highways through the golden rule,

lifted toxic mounds to profit,

Burning species on the pyre…

Enough! Occupy instead. Occupy

the supply, occupy the demand,

Occupy the answer, occupy

the question. Occupy

the proof  and premise,

the fact and inference,

the here and hereto,

the beginning and end,

heaven and earth,

land and the sea,

tree and fruit.

Occupy the front of your hand

And the back of your hand,

Occupy the dead of night

And the light of day,

Occupy the real, the solid,

The obvious, the true—

Both Houses are brothels,

Europe is lost; you’re next.

Occupy the straight

smack in front of you.

Occupy the Mayflower and

Rockefeller Center. Occupy

Ft. Knox and Ticonderoga,

Haymarket and Blair Mountain,

The hallelujah chorus and

The Gettysburg Address.

Occupy your bodies, occupy

Compassion, occupy Paul

Revere’s ride, occupy

the pursuit of happiness.

Occupy prison labor in China,

Aids in Africa, black lung,

blood diamonds, shale

underground, oil in the water.

Occupy anything you like.

Don’t stop, don’t give in to fear,

Don’t compromise. Keep on

Right on. Persevere. Hammer

stakes in the holy ground,

And stay there.

Photos by Paul McLean

CO-OP/Occufest Flyer

Download a printable flyer (8.5"x11" 300dpi TIF 18.5mb) HERE.

CO-OP/Occuburbs Kick-off, with Films by Liza Bear, and More: Save the Date!

[Save the date: July 25, 2012]

Occupy with Art and Cinema Arts Center present a selection of short films by Liza Bear, + an evening of discussion, poetry, music and more -- to kick off CO-OP/Occuburbs in Huntington, Long Island.

Occupy: Corporations Can’t Cry

Date:

• July 25, 2012

Showtime

• Wednesday, July 25 at 7:30pm

Film / Discussion / Public Forum / Music /  Poetry
Co-Presented by Occupy with Art and Cinema Arts Center

Join us for a lively and illuminating evening about Occupy Wall Street, featuring the films of Liza Béar (who has been at OWS since the first day of the occupation), music, poetry, and information about numerous Long Island activist organizations

• In Person: Filmmaker Liza Béar
• Music by Brian O’Haire
• Poetry by Christopher Moylan 

$10 Members / $15 Public
(includes reception)
Tickets also available by calling 800-838-3006, or at the CAC Box Office
Scholarship Tickets are available for those unable to pay – Contact Charlotte Sky at 631-423-7610 x22

Since Day One, September 17, 2011, Liza Béar has filmed the modus operandi of Occupy Wall Street at Zuccotti Park and at other New York locales. Shot over a 7 month period, these 65 minidocs or situationist videos combine dialogue between–and with—an eclectic range of OWS participants, members of the community and the security forces. The style is a mixture of verité filmmaking and a more proactive, direct cinema approach. The aim has been to dispel mass media stereotyping and facile judgments. To be screened tonight: OWS Day 5: “Corporations Can’t Cry”; “Zuccotti Gets Surreal”; “Occupy the SEC: Enforce the Volcker Rule,” “Occupy the Courts: Foley Square Rally to End Corporate Personhood”; OWSJ29: “Murder By SpreadSheet; Health Care for the 99%”; OWS M28 “The Trap of Violence” and others.

Liza Béar is a New York-based writer, filmmaker and media activist.  After arriving in New York in 1968, she cofounded the avant-garde artists’ magazine Avalanche 1970-1976 with Willoughby Sharp and was a co-producer of Communications Update, a public access artists’ tv show that also dealt with information politics. Her films have been shown at The Museum of Modern Art, the Edinburgh Film Festival, the Sao Paulo Biennial, and most recently at Torpedo Kunsthalle, Oslo, Macka Art Gallery, Istanbul and the ICA London. She is the author of “Beyond the Frame: Dialogues with World Filmmakers” (Praeger, 2007).  Learn more at http://lizabearmakingbook.blogspot.com and http://communicationsupdate.blogspot.com

[revgames] Dandelions on Fire

[From Alex]:

This is what DHS and police do when they repress free speech and collective liberation:

Update on Saturday, May 19, 2012 at 10:42PM by admin

Hundreds Arrested In Massive Crackdown on #Blockupy

May 19, 2012 By Jérôme E. Roos

Jérôme E. Roos's ZSpace Page / ZSpace

Frankfurt on lock-down as over 5.000 police are deployed in an unprecedented operation to keep protesters out of the city and away from the banks.

 

The atmosphere here in Frankfurt is tense. The police are omnipresent. The sound of sirens permeates the city streets.

As I write this, some thousands of protesters are huddled together at the university, pitching tents or simply squatting a place on the ground to try and catch some sleep before tomorrow’s big actions. But as the activists here prepare to physically block the headquarters of the European Central Bank, the police already seem to have done the job for them.

The entire city is on lock-down. Roadblocks sever the main traffic arteries going into the city center. Everywhere, small squads of riot police patrol the streets looking for anyone who looks “suspicious” (i.e., like a potential Leftist). Shops and banks downtown have barricaded their windows with wooden planks, and at almost any random corner you will find a line of police vans, sometimes as many as 50 or 60 parked in a row. It feels like Frankfurt is preparing for civil war.

A few times today, small groups of people tried to make their voices heard by protesting or camping in one of the city’s squares. At some point, over 1,000 gathered in the central square, while later a small tent camp was set up elsewhere. Yet on every single occasion, the protesters were met with thousands of police who quickly cordoned off the squares, forced those present to identify themselves, and then continued by dragging them away one by one.

While German media report at least 150 arrests so far, the actual numbers are likely to be much higher. We have seen dozens of people arrested for “offenses” as simple as being in the wrong place at the wrong time; or carrying around a sleeping bag into the city center. The Italian newspaper Repubblica reports that 100 Italians alone have been arrested; leaving aside the Germans, Greeks, French, and countless other nationalities who have descended upon the city.

 

The Blockupy actions, scheduled to culminate in a large demonstration on Saturday, have already been banned by authorities (a ban that was, bizarrely enough, upheld by the country’s highest constitutional court). In an attempt to enforce this absurd ban, over 5,000 police have been drawn in from across the country. So far, it seems that there are at least 2.5 policemen to every protester in the city. The overreaction of the authorities is truly staggering.

This morning, as we walked towards the central station with four friends, we were stopped by a group of eight riot police who took our IDs, searched our bags and bodies and, after not finding anything suspicious, threatened us with immediate arrest if they found us in the city center again. In other words, not only does the state rudely violate the constitutional right to assembly; it also denies average citizens and independent journalists access to public spaces.

A caravan of three buses coming from Berlin was stopped before even arriving in Frankfurt, and directed straight back to Berlin under police escort. A kettling operation at the train station this morning ensured that those arriving by train could not join others gathering in the city center. Anywhere we tried to go, we literally had to keep an eye out not to run into more riot police and risk being arrested simply for walking in the street. It truly looks like a police state here.

Indeed, in Frankfurt, the financial capital of continental Europe, it feels like democracy has temporarily been put on halt. In the process, the state once again reveals its true nature. In an attempt to protect the city’s powerful banks, millions of euros are expended and basic constitutional rights suspended just to maintain a degree of control over the situation. Yet the intensity of the repression is only likely to further stir frustration among the protesters here.

In the most bizarre twist of all, the German and international media do not appear to be reporting on this extreme situation at all. When hundreds of peaceful protesters are arrested in Russia, our leaders and newspapers are quick to denounce Putin for being a dictator. Yet when it happens in a civilized society and advanced economy like Germany, the peaceful protesters are suddenly denounced as violent criminals — or simply not spoken about at all.

 

Tomorrow we will not only take the struggle to the ECB; we will also fight for our right to protest peacefully, publicly and passionately. We will not be intimidated. We will not be crushed. And most certainly, we will not back down. And even if they crack down on us again — which they will — let it be known that our aims have already been achieved: the financial epicenter of eurocapitalism is completely blocked. And the authorities were kind enough to do it for us. 

WS2MS: Reading @Occupy Books + Dinner [#M21, 6-8PM]

Monday, May 21, 6-8 PM, stop by for a pop-up night of poetry and prose from OCCUPY BOOKS, the literary heart of the Wall Street to Main Street project at 450 Main Street in Catskill, NY.

Sander Hicks new book, Slingshot to the Juggernaut

Meet the writers at OCCUPY BOOKS for a short reading followed by pay-for-yourself dinner at Wasana’s Thai Restaurant, 336 Main Street.

Rebecca Wolff

The event will be hosted by Fence editor Rebecca Wolff. The reading is headlined by Sander Hicks, author of Slingshot to the Juggernaut: Total Resistance to the Death Machine Means Complete Love of the Truth, just out from Soft Skull Press.

Sam Truitt's Street Mete

Hicks is joined by beloved [Occupy] poet Sparrow, who will present on the power of silence. Sam Truitt will read poems from Vertical Elegies- Street Mete. Rebecca Wolff will share some of her new poetry, as well.

Sparrow, from his 2008 Presidential campaign

This promises to be a wonderful night, occupied by great people, verse, food and fun. Don't miss it!

http://www.facebook.com/events/103822953089752/

REvGaMEs: Call/Response, 2+ Sequence Poems

[Photo by Paul McLean]

1

[Game program initiated by (sender) Alexandre Carvalho]

Solo or collective meditationdance, process whereupon the awakening being feels the streams of the universe intermeshing with body and body politik, streaming to and from, here and there, improving and exercising creation-meditation with no fucking mediation.

Microfilaments play, histories stream about: converge, merge, diverge, merge - and Emerge. 

#OWS? Not an organization. An idea-organism. Faith that manifests. By making the invisible visible, desmystifying space-time, we nourish a new reality. 

!!kaleydoscope.

{{@vortex,,,,,of a free,,,,square,,,we,,spiral.  spin the wheels of

!!kaleydoscope.

got it? no need for it. it's there at the funhouse where all mirrors lie.

#novads = #novas + #nomads. Crossing event-horizons all day all week, not for people but with people, through people. 

all can be to ride lifestreams

let you body loose

feel the streams 

leave the space void

unoccupied

ride the streams

if you like dreams

Click to read more ...

Occupy

A Poem by Christopher Moylan

(Photo: Paul McLean)

Next has a hole in it

You can’t see across…

The horizon slips further away,

But it was always that way…

Clouds tear from clouds,

Light falls to pieces, sky

loses its parts of speech…

Deadwood advances on

springtime, a warm breeze

getting warmer all the time…

The sun is in eclipse,

looking with the naked eye,

Everyone else goes blind.

The river is cold and swift.

kneeling to take a sip,

Everyone else gets tipsy…

Turn out your pockets,

compassion needs a loan…

The old words are worn thin,

The new ones require faith

one doesn’t have: swaps and

Derivatives, securities for

Houses under water…

Take care the quiet neighbor,

beware the friendly banker

and job creator…Beware

the savior monetized like

an inspirational movie…

The planes are taking off

Again, the silos are dilating

From the Rockies to Iran…

Watches synchronized; on

their wrists, it’s always midnight…

Time to reassess; the air

We breathe is free, what

to do with it? The spot we

stand on was staked with

light once. It can be again.

We can be better. We can be

New. From now until the end

Next is always at hand.

We can fill it with what

Could be. So much want

To unwrap and pass around

One strong hand to another.

If the higher ground is cluttered,

Overgrown with neglect,

Or lit up like a carnival,

Then come down,

The open ordinary is just fine.

Pick a spot, and occupy.



A Non-Valentine Message

By Jim Costanzo

Aristotle understood that money is a form of social exchange. Joseph Beuys called this process social sculpture and proclaimed that all people are creative in the way that they live their lives. Art is an intensified form of social exchange, more specific and at times poetic. But intensity is not limited to artists and should not be separated from daily activities. Creativity is our Commons, Art is our Commons. Limiting creativity is limiting social exchange. It is a form of oppression; the slavery of the 99% imposed by the 1%.

This was a synthesis of my performance for Greg opening at the forum, transcribed below.

Click to read more ...

The Claudius App Launches

Click the image to visit this beautiful site.

A Journal of Fast Poetry

The Blanket

I hear change.
Pressing my ear to the earth and its stirring bones,
baby vibrations kiss my skull,
I close my eyes and smile;
I detect approaching footfalls.
In conversations, the sketchy sparks of electrified embryos,
these restless hatchlings of hybrid hopes
spring from incubation, fall from lips and
onto my shirt, shoes and into the dirt we walk on.
They are not lost shards of fragmented dreams.
I choose to believe they are seeds.

I hear change.
Surrounds me: a lyric of tongue spoken with hands and feet,
a melody of ideas, philosophy, theology
married to passion in search of a savior
fashions a harmony, this whispered anthem
scratches my ear.
It is not an elegant sound, these staccato pinging
sutures of suffering sewn into faces
of mommies and daddies staring at babies
unconscious to thundering ticks of time
countdown seconds to roll call;
masses lined up for closeted stations in Purgatorio Nuevo.
And notes of simpatico silence as cellos
mourning the passing of faith in the night,
struggle to harmonize poorly with courage,
that blood of the ages which oils fear and flight;
I hear it.

I sense change.
I cannot feel it. The wind won’t reveal it. I’m numb to its presence.
I find no evidence trail on my tongue,
nor DNA refugees hiding in fingertips.
These trained eyes strain to identify
its invisible silhouette walking among us, and fail.
Yet, it is coming.
I know this because it is cold in here.
I should be shivering but I am not.
An other-earthly cloak has fallen,
cast around myself, its warmth just barely
coats me with a holy intuition.
Wrapped and huddled on front porch step,
eyes fixed upon that dark horizon
expectation welds me to this patient space
where, as prodigal children returning to rescue,
christening streaks of breaking light
will herald our transformation.

2011 Sojourner109

Occupy Brooklyn Rail

Several pieces came out of the Occupy reading at Bowery Poetry Club last month that Brooklyn Rail has published in the November issue. These include:

• Theodore Hamm's "Letters to the Mayor"
• Jason Flores-Williams' "In the Battle of the Open Heart"
• Occupennial co-organizer Paul McLean's "A Poem for a Sunday Occupational Reading at the Bowery Poetry Club (10.16.2011)"

The publication contains other terrific #OWS coverage, too.

Below is one of the poems Brenda Coultas read at BPC:

A Gaze

I

A man texts a photograph of his meal, but to who? Himself or others?

Others too, texting in a crowd on a 1st aveune as glaciers recede.

They do not feel the fading cold of the ice. Only the heat of the keys strokes.

A man texts crystal water glass pixels to quench real thirst.

I texted forward a rumor of siphoned great lakes water to China. A Chinese bureaucrat texts images of fresh lake water to billions at home.

At the top of a mountain, where only small mamals live, the air is thin and gives me panic. I do not belong above the tree line even though I can drive there. Stopping to send a pic of the lichen sponge by the gift shop on the glacier, the phone lens: an extension of my eyes.

At times, I forget that I am not an extention of the machine until I burn my palms touching a hot metal pot: recoil and remember to use hot pads to protect the flesh fabric that covers the hand bones.

From the glacier tops, bodies of mountian climbers in the dead zone; Will their corpses sweeten or enbitter the drinkers of the Ganges?

 The leather shoes of the ice man texted forward. Sometimes, the tap runs while I brush my teeth and empty bathwater down the drain.

The last glass of water sits before you, how will you drink it?

We load the car on hwy 50 the lonliest highway in the USA. It whines through Nevada crossing the poney express route and ancient seabeds. Crinoid stems thirst for the ancient sea.

Last glass of glacier water boils in the kettle.  Saffron threads of a viking beard cloud the water glass.

Theft of water, relocation, diverted from its bed.  Hydrofracting.  I never thought they’d use our water against us.

When we began with this full jug of water, without thinking until the police chased us away from the creek of who owns the water, like who owns the sky. Or that satilite overhead, branded by a private owner over public space.

Wanted to absorb it, to get to the bottom and start all over again. A great anixiety about finishing and throwing it away, with a inch still in the bottom, the backwash.

Who owns the creeks and waterways of this valley? The only legal course is midstream so that anglers can trout fish without tresspass.

Into the last glass, I stir the reindeer scat with a herding stick captured from the thaw.

The water, sometimes they use it against us.  I question the interaction between the sythentic (the plastic) and the real inside of the jug on the table.  The water is an hour glass, and I write fast as I can before it runs dry

A glass of water from last glacier sits before you on the table, you glaze at the logo of an abundant flowing stream or the name of the spring which somehow sounds pure and far away as an ice berg, calved off and lassoed from the warming world. Even though you know the source  is a corporate tap of public water.

Fertilzer runs off into our family well. I used to picture a whale, a Moby Dick under the cornfield, a levathian as the source of our water. Because only a vessel the size of a sperm whale could contain the water that flowed on conmand from the tap. Even though people spoke of the well running dry. Ours magically replenished itself under the blanket of  Monstanto crops.

It flows on the green logo and facsmile of a mountain stream of abundant water. Abundant: a 20th century word.

“Natural” is highlighted and in a yellow circle it is written, “contains 16 servings” and there are only two of us left since this, now nearly empty, jug was opened.

Common Ground

hi all, had a really interesting conversation today on the subway home as I was leaving OWS with a woman who worked for a bank on wall st. and she was open to having a dialogue, but really felt like she and her co-workers were taking the hit for the 1% even tho she was a divorced mom who had to work her way up from nothing. We tried to explain to her not to take it personally, that it was the structure of the system that was the issue but people of her ilk are very goal oriented and really was hoping to hear our demands and proposed solutions. I invited her down there to discuss and told her how important it was that she participates in the process and see for herself what is happening, rather than taking what the media says at face value....anyway, its just these types of dialogues that I think is what's best about this movement. It was an uplifting moment for all of us just to communicate.

In other news, my friend in Canada posted this amazing poem/song on facebook, and I told her there was a web archive for poetry, so Paul, or someone else out there if u have a spare moment, can you upload this, and maybe send me a link, so I can tell her it on line?

Thanks so much!
O

>

Zipporah Lomax :

The world is stirring...history unfolding beneath our feet, before our eyes.

 

Inspired by the OWS movement, I started writing a song. It quickly became more of a poem...a poetic commentary...my take on the issues we face.

 

I'd like to share it as my small contribution on this day of solidarity...

 

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'Common Ground'

by Zipporah Lomax

 

everything has gone awry

a great divide has grown

between the hands that hoard the pie

and the measly crumbs we're thrown

 

they enjoy their privileged lives

while our homes are foreclosed

they're keeping us in line

with all the wealth that they withhold

 

they profit off our ignorance

expecting us to play the part 

of obedient indifference

robots, with shopping carts

 

well-designed to distract

and keep us misinformed

the media's been hijacked

by those who bank offshore

 

they've poisoned our sea and sky

through oil-driven greed

they contaminate our food supply

with their modified seeds

 

they've stolen our autonomy

and our right to choose

they perpetuate inequality

through narrow-minded rules

 

they've made health a business

selling pills to those in need

they benefit from illness

growing rich off our disease

 

we know it won't be long

before they try to buy our souls

before our lives have been withdrawn

exchanged, for fool's gold

 

they've kept us on our knees

believing change would never come

but down on wall street

the revolution's just begun

 

we're waking from our slumber

it's time to stand up strong

take back what they have plundered

we've held our tongues too long

 

we'll shout until our cause is heard the whole world 'round...

they may tie our hands, but our voices cannot be bound...

something's gotta give...the wall has gotta come down...

...we all deserve to live on common ground...

 

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