your body is like water
ever winding, you follow me.
breathwork , decompartmemtalizes us
into layers, celebrated layers;
you come to me as
the land before history began
land that was not ruled by a man
land that raised me
land with more beauty I had ever seen
a land filled with spirits in trees beautiful and green
land that was untouched
land prosperous and lush
land that I fled to when I was scared
land that helped me with the struggles I bared
land filled with artifacts
land with hidden, ancient tracks
land that I called my own
land that was my home
the man with a cross in hand
set fires to the land
he spoke in a different tongue
and tried to teach it to our young
my people gave him food and water
he only gave us an alter
he told us we were sinners
made us kneel with interlocked fingers
I saw the flags in the distance
I cried in an instance
more of his men were coming
I knew we had to start running
Maga'håga is a female leader of a tribe, she is the one who is respected among Chiefs. This is an homage to the Maga'håga who did all she could to protect her land, people, and culture.
Upon Reading a Patronizing Review of Ferlinghetti’s Delightful and Revelatory Entertainment, Little Boy
The only problem with the Proletariat
Is obeying the pretentious ***** that
Insist on calling us the Proletariat -
Resist their Insist!
For I will not be labeled by some artsy-crat
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree: The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
How many times must my fists smack your stiffness until you soften?
I don’t want to use my fists, I’m not violent.
Even in defense, words raised to take the hardness,
silently, repeat, repeat.
Raised to repeat, repeat.
I never wanted to be violent.
I don’t want to use my fists, but your stiffness is contagious.
I don’t know how to look at you without them,
smacking every corner, separating hard shells.
I don’t want to use my fists.
They’re raw and dry, too sanitized.
and my shell is colliding, oozing, fermenting
into juices of the berries you forbid.
I don’t want to use my fists anymore.
My hands want to open, softly.
Sweet unfolding fingers
offer demons blessed darlings.
— The End —