The greatest mastery of self
is to do nothing.
We are doers
programmed to do,
to solve, to be busy
creating problems
just to solve them
rewarding ourselves
with ever more destructive prizes.
We congratulate ourselves
for our compulsive expenditure
like an addict congratulating
themselves for turning back
to the needle.

We are all addicts.

The true anarchist
does nothing.

Something is coming to **** me.
There is no time.

The day he handed the flowers to her
she was looking ahead
instead of at him.

This is how the body looks now:
    empty, estranged…
its parts arguing their cases
for emancipation,
sovereignty from the system—
each component demanding
overt consent from all others
before further engaging
in vital collaborations.

This is how the body looks now:
    formless, dissociated…
the war for Independence and
Recognition has left us
devastated by the divisions
of definition—disjointed
structures of severed relations
disavowed of the Whole.

Ain't it a shame
that we—
Nature's Human—
can't bring ourselves
to care.
Can't bring ourselves
to care
about our collective actions
nor allowances...
not until they reach us,
as individuals,
not until they
**** with our own
individual day.
Can't bring ourselves
to care,
not until our own
feelings are hurt,
until our own bellies ache,
until we can make it
about ourselves,
until it's too late.
Ain't it a shame.

I sunk my fingers down
into the loam of an ancient
buffalo wallow and the
land that had quietly
prepared for their species
untold millennia before me.

I held the buffalo’s
mourning in my heart,
and felt the Buffalo Nations’
cry rattle against my ribs.

I opened myself to the
Earth and it spoke
sorrowfully to me
of its broken home.

Is it not through the
Buffalo that we know
of ourselves?

Or do you look
to your uniform
to tell you who
you are?