Because it’s still not Phriday.
We (k)(n)ow(e) we could just walk away we don't owe any one any thing we don’t know but we do we have a terrible responsibility from time to time (f)or all time now we are called and don’t get off easy or easily this is why the dying child fights they know what we have learned to forget
Why is time a woman and man a death? Why do we give one force a gender and gender the other with force? Will our willing gender upon them lessen the bite of their skin upon ours? Can a persona’s presence soften the blow for even a moment of the two things most impossibly removed from our personhood? Do the masks we put upon their faces hide their horrors from us? Will these suppositions blow the wind of these days out of the eyes of our oldest and dearest friends, our most constant companions, our dearest foes? Will they leave us any longer by virtue of what does or does not dangle between their legs?
I am haunted.
She is only nineteen. How is she so haunting? Is she haunted?
This is how I discovered her. NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts. Always a great way to find new music:
And here….my god….
One of my poems is up over at I am not a silent poet.
I don’t usually write “protest poems.” I try not to be too heavy-handed with what I write plus I’m lousy at getting anything done in a timely manor. Sometimes though, events drive me to react. Usually with anger that I have to work through. Every once in a while, something like this happens.
You should also check out all the other work over there.
Great protest poems.
Giving voice to the voiceless.
Letting the unheard have a hearing.
Poetry that says something.