Poetry is a
     well-oiled function,
      processing sentiments
                for posterity

*Poetry is an extension
     of our core elements,
           royally regurgitated

The Stanford **** Case
Statement from the Young Woman Who Was *****
June 10, 2016 | Revolution Newspaper | revcom.us

Editors Note: The following harrowing and courageous "victim impact" statement was read in court by the woman who was assaulted and ***** by ex-Stanford student Brock Turner. It has been released widely and revcom.us is reposting it here. As Sunsara Taylor said in "The Stanford **** Outrage: Reason Enough to Make Revolution": "Her letter is 13 pages long and everyone should read it. In its entirety. Out loud. In classrooms. In church groups. In families. On sports teams. On air. Her pain must be seen. Her battle against despair must be supported. Her courage must be multiplied."*
-------------------------------------------

Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends.

Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party.

When I was finally allowed to use the rest room, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my ****** and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “**** Victim” and I thought something has really happened.

My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my ****** and ****, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my *******. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my ****** smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for *** because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my ****** was sore and had become a strange, dark colour from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been ***** behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone.

After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair dishevelled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was **** naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognise.

This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.

And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own ****** assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.

The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a line-up, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know.

He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me.

Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.

Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my *** and ****** were completely exposed outside, my ******* had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an ***** freshman was ******* my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.

I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful lawyer, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this ****** assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly *****, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His lawyer constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his lawyer saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right?

This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The ****** assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside?

Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What colour was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.

I was pommeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the cl

There’s a feeling called
the drifting force
that makes you want
to shift your course
and find a better vector
on boring study nights.

They’re so many things
a girl starts missing,
like hugging, dancing
and oh, yes kissing,
when she lets a dry syllabus
control her life.

After several hours
of intensive reading,
your intuition is that
what you’re needing,
is something we’ll
politely call ‘delights’.

But you make the almost
painful choice
and factor out your inner voice
and you pick up yet another book
and not a boy,
because, you see - it’s really
a necessity, not a choice.

In algebra there is a method for factoring polynomials
called "guess and check."
You figure out the factors A and C  
and mix and match them until you find something equal to the original problem.
It's a good analogy for this feeling, these moments, where a direct answer escapes me, or you.
So I am left with no other method,
besides "guess and check."
Sometimes the first few guesses find the answers, sometimes you have to try it twenty different ways.

I am exhausted by this constant guess,
of what A and C equal.
An onerous search for the variables to solve the equation of making you happy.

Let us begin in the factoring of gin where the malefactors and blaggards try hard not to show us a grin.
and begin.
Factor out taste and factor in waste in the factory, in any case nobody cares,and the gin could be anything from nappies to ****** toys for the big boys and pearls for the girls,but we call it gin.
and begin.

They're all scammers,flim flamming their way from the start to the end of each day and we pay,through the nose,for **** knows what,(a touch of soylent green),get your brains on toast,shin for sunday roast and the marketeers,new age buccaneers blow us out of the water,someone should have taught me how cruel this life can be.
and we begin.

Back in the factory buying up gin with a passion,the fashionistas get ****** on the fumes and the poor people are shown only crap filled back rooms where the gnomes sit to **** out, tomorrow we'll sit out in the sun,spit out what's home spun and make money from telling funny jokes to the poker faced liars and the gin filled flash buyers who have bought up our Christmas and resold it to China,
'and it's another fine mess dear Laurel,please pass me the bottle of 'mist chloral'.
'Why certainly' said Stanley who seemed ever so manly in the valley when the dolls had gone home.

Another heady day blooms and gathers pace
Spring dawns at 5 a.m. with a gargle and spit in the dark

Big rain drops and falls
Soft blood red wet cherry stones of bath salts
Splayed across my ageing face
Autumn showers then walks

The spiderweb of ragged birdsong feathers and
Threads through the branches
Of just November trees
Autumnal hymnal
Singing through the dying darkness, whispering
Don’t capture the light

And walking jogs thought
Factoring rebuke as Information unwanted  
Proof then reproof
The tarmac fields of youth
Tilled by broken hands with
Broken men mending pipes and wires
Time leaves a presage- a butterfly mark
Autumn leaves their signals sending winter’s mark
Beauty colours death

Eventually

We all become believers
You will see

We all hit the gutters
And deceive
What we know
Into what we need

Feeding
On the hope
To cope
With the NO
Of every plea

Foiling
The gaping holes
While fruitlessly
Feathering dreams
Of ceasing
To be

Anywhere but there
Anywhere but here

Afraid and aware
Lying barren
On a hair

To everywhere
But where we want to be

Your everything
Believed in our belief
In our grieving
Of a meme

Obsolete and teething on a ***

Seething in seeing it
Unseamed
And undone
Unto nothing

Disconnected dots
Unlit

Breathing out
And away
From meaning

Slightly clinging
To the things
Believed
To Matter

Scattered over
The tattered matters
In meteor
Metaphors
Seeding
The other chapters

But not until after
Factoring in
The tractor beams
Of nothing

Just waiting

On the bottom
Of the gut
Crawling up
The throat lumps

And stuffing our luck

With all the succulent stuff
We are made of

Until eruptions
Of higher functions

Save us
From the ****

When enough
Is enough
And we just stop
Giving a ....

And let go

Blow after blow
Until we know
Who is in control

Of what is real
And what is
Made up

From atoms to the eave
Of our dreams
We must glean
What we need to

To get us through
These words
Of hurt
Out from lurking
In the work
Of our enemies

Forever tempting me
To blaspheme
In the wake

Of your passing

The endeavoring
Ever lasting
In careful mapping
Of the synapses
Collapsing
Into relief

Though brief

Locked in eternity
Oh the possibilities

My everything
And my humility

Locked in a single thought

In anxiety
Gone quietly

My hands before me

Steady

Always ready
Blanket me
In blank

Make me
Or break me

Take me

To forever

Conjecturing on the intimate remnants of your heart
surmising on the proper way to dissect its parts
delving into the chasm that holds your most private illusions of grandeur
bewildered by the vast expanses, these weathered lips simply stammer
the complexity of the concept left me stifled, mouth failing to make any attempts at offering kind words
as the reverberations of vocal chords became the only sound we heard
ricocheting off the precipices of your heart's unsurmountable walls
useless like hands digging the sands in fruitless attempts to draw
the full force off the ocean from a shallow hole
I stared at the blueprints of your heart's desires failing to find the control
every route on the schematic
seemed as if inner city traffic
flooded with passengers never fulling knowing when they will reach their destination rightfully so, at the center of your attention
as I sketch out the dimensions
factoring in the time it will take to find the route that leads me back to you
I marvel at the resiliency of your heart, then drive straight through
beyond these hallowed walls lies a future I was destined to reach
I shred these maps, light a match and burn all the blueprints of me...

Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.

make love to the radio!
enjoy the taste undercover
and cherish it in the whole lot
until it’s bone-crushing delight

let me come utterly across you
where we can cover
over each part of the universe
while we still have access

overdue for liable spree
and disciple to the entire world
to make sure the show
is worth every bit of the admission

let’s form a mental picture of it
and partake into all of the human experience
try your hand at factoring my figures
tip your hat to my complex

so you can take all your know-how
and superimpose it on around me
together we can shelve our fears
and luxuriate into all the human experience

i am at a friends house when your favorite song starts to play. i forgot you two like the same bands. i dont ask her to skip it, instead let it play, as i recount the numerous times ive heard you sing it to me. i can see your smile in the speckled white paint of her kitchen, hear your voice in my ears anytime she says my name. i am wearing my favorite shirt, and it is only when i am halfway to her bathroom that i realize it is the shirt you bought me for christmas. i look at my feet as i sit back down to see the shoes you bought me for my birthday, i look around to find the bracelet that you made and sent to me adorning my wrist and i wonder when my life became so for you and i dont want to think about this but how can i write about the importance of factoring quadratics when the most important thing to me is you? i didnt want to write a poem this time but ive found myself doing just that with your name as the subject line and your heart as the foundation and i hope there is never another day when i write a sad story with your name for the main character but with a heart like this, whos to say what goes?

If I were a sound
I would be the sound
of wind
forgotten amidst
the cacophony of life
but ever present
whipping through the trees
surrounding you
in the distant sound
of far away places

If I were an animal
I would be a mouse
quiet
so as not to be found
but living with you
in the wall
the floor
anywhere you won't look
I don't wish to be seen
so I scurry
living off the scraps
of my housemate

If I were a number
I would be the number
eleven
two thin lines
that are ignored when factoring
lost in the scramble
to scribble down notes
two lines that are
separate
but the same
and sometimes distant

If I were a person
I would be the person
in the back
head down
hair in my eyes
so no one sees
the truth that lies
in them
That I am
the wind
I am
a mouse
the number eleven
that I would be
in the back

But I'm not
because you put a hand up
to block the wind
bought a cat
to **** the mouse
were dividing by two
so didn't need eleven
and looked back
in class
and sneered
at the person there

Morning winds
reminds me of songs that might
have been written thousands
of years ago.

A song that breaths life in your being.
A song that might be the reason to
evolve your genetic composition.
Or the windy sound of
your dark hours.

I am not good at maths- when it comes to heart.
I just love with sincere joy. May be, just may-be, that
is the reason, why I am an easy target.
Like a factor factoring itself.
Or like the color of your skin lying to me,
your breath smells of your heartbreaks.
May be, I am a little twisted.

May be, we both are.

And that's how it is.
Morning winds.

Because the definition of beauty isn't something as simple as your face
It's your very soul and mind  
The way you look at things with such childlike curiosity
Your mind an ocean of untapped creativity  
Your heart forever expanding, fueled by love and joy
And yet you still look in the mirror every single day, hating the person you've become
So you twist yourself into something ugly and fake
Don't tell me nothing's wrong when I can see you slowly dying inside and letting society  chain you up and break you down  Until all you can hear is; "Skinny, pretty, skinny, pretty, skinny, pretty,-"
You see the size of those jeans. Doubting, criticizing. Esteem thin as paper.  
Posting a million pictures to get likes from complete strangers. Wanting, craving, needing people to tell you that you’re beautiful. Looking for anyone else’s opinion but your own.
Because you refuse to look into that ****** mirror and even associate beauty with that person staring back at you.  
You judge your self-worth by weather or not a man finds you attractive.
Because that’s the only thing that matter right?
The definition of beauty that others set fourth for you.
A path that you don’t dare stray from.
It wasn't always like this
Being young, being free, meant being you
Laughing as hard as you wanted to
Smiling with your teeth  
And wearing that cute dress you've always loved.  
Getting older, getting bullied, getting shamed
Your laugh was obnoxious  
Teeth were just a bit crooked  
That dress, not as cute anymore
We shouldn't be wasting our lives trying to impress people
Don't look to others to tell you you're beautiful  
Look inside of yourself
And if you don't see anything worth wild
You're not looking hard enough
You judge yourself by looks alone. Not factoring in who you are as an individual.  
Whether you want to believe it or not you're beautiful, inside and out
I think it's about ****** time you stop listening to someone else's definition of beauty
And start looking for your own

i'm graduating.
tomorrow
twenty hours
who let this happen
let me go back to crayons and finger weaving
or at least to factoring
i am no adult
the world is no more ready for me than i am for her.

Pictures with strangers, perhaps with the fame

I haven’t been the same; unrecognizable even with
all these fans screaming my name

There’s always a price to entertain

I entered into a much louder desperation out of my
old depression's gate. But still lying about feeling great

Still I’m among all of the greats; those who've tasted fame

Anyways, one lick of it made me sick— thick legs always
any easy pick, but I never thought I’d call someone a *****

It’s quite rich, like I am; still with his poor tastes

All these make-ups on a face; making up for your pain
make up ***, made up ideas from sexting texts

It felt a given, it would all take away my innocence

Feeling caught always in the thrill of them cheering my
brilliance; masking how it kills my feelings

To now feeling more worried about my appealing

“How’s my appearance,” factoring those experiences
would they still take me less than serious

Sort of shook hands with the president

Still preferred the picture; not being in a picture with him,
looking like I live on his immoral morals like a resident

Paranoid paradise: so relaxed on being anxious

The camera flashes always judge my actions,
calling me old fashioned. Not fashioned in those factions

Overthinking what to put under my caption

Capture a moment, but the camera lens is the only forever
lasting smile; soon I’ll be turning into Mr Passive

Still I had a passion, beforehand

Fame served me a lot to handle in a forehand, nobody
understands the grip of fame in Hollywood’s tight hand

Serving you free chicken

*******, and thighs— Bets and thongs, a high supply
of different women. Swallowing their pride and your children

A million dollar tub, but still feeling filthy

“Oh really, you think you can have your soul back,”
the devil now outside, once only one within me

I made a deal to die at fifty

Knowing the fame won’t last me that long, feeding myself
to an empty richness. So **** greedy!

But hey, I guess I made it

What would have been the chances; still if only I had
waited a little longer for God’s right answers.

But hey mama, I’m famous...

All the fixation of a fictional mind
Seen as the scene playing on my pride

Makes of a fool, full on their stomach butterflies
Caught by love, in nets of its scent passing by

Buy into dreams; if to only afford imagination
Thinking of those you love and to lose concentration

Concerns of connecting factors, factoring in time
A factory of my heart, trying to work out how you'll be mine

Mind were you dig in my many deep thoughts
Thwarting me—I am a haunting manifesto of public courts

Courtship of an engaging conversation I'd always keep
Lost are words to a chest's heart; of love being the key

Keen on the grin, grinding a motive to work up a nerve
Nervous, shy man—can't speak up on public's street curve

And so bent out of shape, to express this final say
That despite of upbringing, we're up to falling in love some day

Going in cashing the check, releasing my breath cause I know soon I'll be outta debt.  So many regrets, with so many effected by my mindset. I'm sorry i'm not a pastor, i'm sorry that I am not a positive rapper, I'm sorry for not factoring in your feelings and pretending like it didn't even matter. I wish I could just pay my out, I wish I could just figure out what i'm all about. Am I for or against the people? Am I helping those in need or am I too busy to high up on my steeple? Am I truly a class act? Am I truly spitting the honest hitting facts? Questioning my self, hating myself, wanting a purpose and a happy future for myself. Has the dollar become my God? Has the scholar become a corrupt facade? So focused on making the dough, spending that dough, banging another ***, smocking that blow, putting on a show, but haven't really grown. Wow! Realizing that the money doesn't really matter/ Realizing that I am not my own master. For when I'm slipping I find myself leaning up against Jacob's ladder. I don't deserve forgiveness, I deserve the hammer,  I deserve to live in disaster. But by grace I have not been splattered, but by grace I have not been shattered! I don't know why? For I am not worth anything like an ant or a fly. At least that's what I convince myself of, for the voice in my head tells me that I'll never enter the pearly gates above. It tells me i should just give up, It tells me to just shut up. It reinforces the notions of people who hate me, It deflates me, It takes me down a valley of death and says that no one will help me. I know my future will be bright and that for right now I have to rome throughout the night. But it's alright as long as I don't lose sight. I know the world is crumbling apart for it is a result of our own misguided choices, I know it's because others have believed their own deceiving voices. It's not a matter of faith, or race, or gender but by our own selfish flesh. We are like an old virus filled computer, we just need to be fixed and modified and refreshed.

This is all temporary, we are all temporary, this sun and my voice; they are all only here for the fragile concept of a moment. The only way we know how to defeat mortality is with the echo ringing in the pages of thought we can leave behind. Pieces of ourselves; like seeds.  



Like, we are all fleshy sacks of bones on a tilted rotating elliptical hunk of rock hurtling in infinite space. Positioned just so that it isn't too hot and it isn't too cold. We're the luckiest children of our common ancestors to stand straight and have humility. The coincidences factoring into this second, here and now, are awesome, and nearly impossible.  



Take a lesson from Medgar Evars wife and realize what she had to the hard way. Hate only hurts yourself, and that your enemies deserve the opposite of love: apathy.  



Take a lesson from Johnathan Larson, the playwright of Rent, and know the opposite of war is not peace, but creation. Why do you think children and artists breathe hope into our every breath?



Take a lesson from the comedian Bo Burnham, and consider that maybe God does not believe in you, and that if life on Earth could be Heaven, isn't it worth a try?



I've found divinity in the good words of individuals since grade school. Comedians, writers, activists, victims, wise old cat lady neighbors. Humans all have a story to tell and we're all blessed with the ability to listen. To understand the fellow human is more powerful than the sun that brought us here.  



We're all just a way of the universe to be able to understand itself, and we're all trying to understand our selves. Looks at these stars and see how infinite you are, how much family you have come from. God is inside all of us. Eyes like nebulas, like soul sisters. Brain cells like cathedral windows, we are divine by existence. Why would you ever exclude a single soul? To know all, to see all, God's omnipotence. Isn't that just another word for friendship?



Step back, look at this rock we all share, everything that has ever happened, every embarrassing moment you'll never forget, every first kiss, every marriage and divorce, every love lost and love found, every book and every comic happened right on that speck right there. Take notice, how borders can't be seen from space, how the only colors shining bright enough for space to see are blue and green. We are a family bound by this gravity and we all know how it get's us down.  



We live united under these stars and these clouds. It is every humans responsibility to care for every death and every life and every injustice we face as Earthkind.  



Be kind.



Be love.



Be divine.  



Be poet.  



Be human.

Dressed in green and black,
The wool was soft
The colour, strong and vibrant,
Broken by a line of pearl-white buttons
From neck to waist
Fastened one by one,
Twixt finger and thumb.
The rest was black as the coal
Hewn deep under the earth,
Trousers, shoes, fingernails and hair,
And eyes, shining
Like dark hedonistic candles
From a clear, clean face.
I knew a girl who lived in Sheffield –
A city of factoring and steel.
(Do they still make knives and forks there?)
- a short distance from the Derbyshire woods,
Where once we walked
On blankets of moss and fallen leaves
One Autumn years ago,
Many years.
And now, as another Autumn approaches,
Here you are,
Dressed in green and black.

I have one week to make it back to Paris and meet Rayne at the airport.

Goodbye magnolia trees and Margaret the cat, I'm out the door early and into town for coffee and to figure out what direction to move in next. "Toodalure San Fargeau" I hope sometime to pass back through. After freshly ground coffee, an orange juice,  some homemade yogurt,  cigarette,  and a piece of alvacado toast, I head out of town in what I believe is soo (south). Stopping only to snap pictures of a castle and a church, seen yesterday.

The next town down, I pas a cemetery and a veterans memorial,  but no restaurants, or even a post office.  There are a lot of these little residential villages from what I've seen all over France. On my way through the village after that, I stop to check my map, and see that even if no one picks me up on the road, I should be able to make it to a place with water and perhaps food within the next 2 hours, there's a large community another couple villages away.

A younger guy pulls over to a stop in front of me and says, "You look as if you could use a ride," I climb in what looks like a work van that has been outfitted to sleep or live in for short periods of time on the road. William is a carpenter by trade who has recently broken up with a girlfriend, and is getting pretty sick of his boss. He's headed west to spend a week of vacation time with a girl there, and to decide if he ever wants to go back to his job again. He's also a pretty good guitarist and a new fan of bluegrass.  We stop at the next town and I spend my last few euros to get us coffee and hear him play. Afterwards, I decide to continue our conversation as far as he's going so, my new direction is now west. Closer to major transit anyway, and still in route to collect my friend in the city at the end of the week. (All trains go to paris)

Dropped off in the city of Rennes, (pronounced more like "wren"), it's a collage town similar to where I'm from only with a river running through it, a slightly better transit system,  and a few more boulangeries than Denton. Rennes is a city rich with midevil history, some of the first tournaments began with knights there. But 11th century walls renovated by 13th century lords, restored again by architects, masons, and builders of the 15th century,  is fast becoming victim of 21st century "could give a **** less" newbloods. I decide to stay for the night so, I look for a place to play. The first person I meet is named Francis, he is headed to a cafe/bar for "english speaking night" there. I go with him, but he skips hanging out with the group inside and instead just chats with me for a bit. He has been to India where I am going and he's an English teacher so, we have good conversation,  and I learn a little bit of "le france" too.

As the night goes on, drunk kids who've just finished exams flood the streets, and though there are many great interactions, compliments on my singing, and everyone is having a good time, I only make pennies. And after phoning to check in with Mom, and checking to see how Rayne is doing, a drunk local woman shows me to a spot where I can crash for the night.

The next morning, after making only .70cent dealing with drunk students last night, and fussing with homebums this morning,  I decide to take off and see Brittany's other city, Saint Malo, on the coast. I make camp next to the motorway and slept in a bit late, but found a ride about half way there, deciding to stop en route to see a little town where every single building was sourced from the granite quarry there. I walked about a kilometer into th town when I found a pub and it began to rain. The frequent rain in Brittany makes the countryside lush and green, like much of the south I've seen so far, accept here, there are more hills and coastline landscape much more similar to Oregon or Washington,  in the states.

Tim has been a local here for 18 years, moving here from England after meeting his wife, she's the lady behind the bar who laughed at my sign, (on my pack it says, "apprends-moi le français, s'il te plait"). He says that when he met his wife, he was forty (something) and she was 18. They're both good company,  and after a couple songs and a bier, I am invited to supper with them. (Duck).  

Tim gives me a lift the rest of the way to Saint Malo. Through the gates of "cite' corsair" to the wall facing the Atlantic... Atop it, I am 5 thousand miles from anyone or anything I have ever really known, with 6 'roes to my name, the closest I will be to the US for the rest of this adventure, and I'm looking out over one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen in my life.

Two cafes' later I met Arthur, he tends bar but it's his night off, he wants to write, play music, and go watch the sun go to sleep from the beach. "Ye' are mot!" That's how you "cheers" in San Malo. I have a few drinks, Arthur's treat, and we're watching "coucher de Soleir."

The next morning it's time for me to leave "pirate city," and continue finding my way to meet up with Rayne. Cafe, cquesant, found a couple euroes somewhere, mail a postcard off, and I'm walking country roads again in no time.

I leave the ocean coast a walk for several days through yellow fields that feel to me like I'm strolling through an oil painting, forests where I camp by streams of running water and wake up to snow on the ground, passing 600 year old places lost in time, walls and stone structures reclaimed by nature and covered with moss and ivy, everything dating hundreds of years older than anything that still stands in my country. As I reach a road at the edge of the next town, a woman pulls over and asks if there is anything she can do for me. I am tired from sleeping on the ground and days of walking, I'm out of food, water, money, and haven't passed anywhere to play music since leaving Saint Malo. I tell her that I would take a lift into town for water, if she is offering.  

She takes me to a cafe for coffee, trys to phone a place to see if I can play music there, buys me a sandwich, some bread for later, pastries at the boulangerie, then drives me to the otherside of town and leaves me with 20 euros in my pocket. Time spent with her was brief, so brief that I never got her name, but she spoke of how fortunate she has been in her life to live long enough to have things and be able to to help. Speaking momentarily on budist and stoek philosophies saying, "Now, is the gift we are given to do what we can with. The goal to being pressent now, is to Not Worry. And to use the 'now,' you ask, what can I do?.. If nothing, then No Worry. If something,  then you do it so, No Worry."

I walked for a little ways and fot a short ride that took the confusion away from my directional questioning for the remainder or this trip. . . Walking along "Rue de Paris."

Many more miles to go still, and it's getting cold out again, but my needs have been met, I have a positive mental attitude,  and all I have to do now is walk .






Stop Auto... (preview)

I do wish that I knew a bit more of the language still, I am learning, but I still feel like somewhat of a disappointment when hitching a ride and found not to be as good conversational company as most hoped. Still, hitchhiking is pretty easy in France, and after factoring my pace walking thus far with the amount of time I have before Rayne lands in the city, I decide not to risk coming up short of meeting her there, and to just hitch the motorway for the last 300km or so. I stood at a roundabout for a few minutes with my thumb out and got a ride most of the way to where I needed to be, the toll booth entry for the motorway headed nord.

Honks and waves, and smiles (probably at my hat and guitar) accompany my short walk there. It only takes a few minutes and I get a ride to the outskirts of Le Mans where I have to change highways. I hopped out of a car, and straight into an argument with law enforcement about being on the wrong side of the toll booth. I go find cardboard and make up a sign that reads "Paris," and in route back to the proper road, a man yells at me and tells me that he will get off work at 7pm and can give me a ride to Paris then. So, I sit down at the McDonald's and read for the rest of the day.

Stephen turns out to be a pretty stand up guy too, and although he's not supposed to have anyone else in his "boss' car" that is just for travel to and from his work, he lives 20 minutes from Paris and I ride with him 2 hours all the way, and he drops me off downtown.

Laced with syntax
Rhyming gets me high
Like ecstasy
Tripping on the the x
Factor, factoring equations
Analyzing every outcome
Call me dumb
Not under the gun
Having fun

Dial 9-1...
Im the one
living life
Without strife
You found God
I found the bar
I will steal your girl
And buy you a bourbon
Hast you learnt
She hit on me
Put a ring on it next time
I’m not responsible for your heartbreak
When I didn’t know
I won’t call her *** though
That’s low
And bro
Your lowest ebb has come
Learn from this