Thursday, June 2, 2016


The animals of the world exist for their own reasons.  They were not made for humans any more than black people were made for whites or women for men.
--Alice Walker

Before visiting NTU (Nanyang Technological University) in Singapore I visited monkeys at the Philadelphia Zoo (Prison).  It is very difficult to witness pitiless, unenlightened parents normalize (even CELEBRATE) the incarceration of innocent animals for their children.  In this ritual I carried a small piece of celestite in my left hand with 9 blades of grass plucked outside the zoo (prison).  Celestite’s name is derived from the Latin to mean “of the sky,” and it works on opening our top three chakras:  Throat, 3rd eye, and Crown.  It was important I chose a stone that was capable of allowing any communications to pass into it as a temporary battery and transmitter without the complications of me needing to translate the messages for myself since the messages were not for me.  It was up to the wild monkeys of Singapore to interpret our unfortunate cousins’ stories from the United States.

I clenched the crystal and grass while making eye contact with Columbian black monkeys, and white-bellied spider monkeys.  Their faces were anxious and sad.  The Columbian government was not demanding the release and return of one of their nation’s most beautiful natural gifts and they knew it.  The depression of the animals did not seem to register with parents and children pointing and laughing, eating candy and enjoying their freedom.  I did not care that they occasionally stared at me as I spoke out loud to the monkeys, telling them that I am on my way to visit our cousins in Singapore where they swing freely in the trees.  “What would you like me to tell them?”  I stared into their eyes and said, “I love you little cousins,” then left the zoo (prison), putting the crystal and grass blades in my left pocket.  I took notes for the poem before, during and after the zoo (prison) visiting hours.

When you know something is wrong in the world it must be confronted.  Be sad, be angry, be active, and never apologize, ever!  A couple years ago someone overheard me saying, “Zoos are prisons where not a single prisoner has ever seen a lawyer!”  This person said, and this is a direct quote, “But animals really are better off in zoos.  It’s safer for them.”  And so began one of the stupidest conversations of my life and no matter what I said this person was confident that imprisonment was the best choice for animals.  “It’s a dangerous world out there,” they informed me.  I tapped the side of my head and said, “It is not nearly as dangerous as the world IN HERE this evening!”  Conversations like this one is exactly why I prefer all other animals over human beings!  I LOATHE my species for the overwhelming lack of empathy for any creature other than our own!  In the mid-1990’s there was a fire in the ape house at the Philadelphia Zoo (Prison) and 23 sentient beings died that day.  It was shocking, and when the news reporter said, “Luckily no one was injured,” I called the news station to complain, “You mean NO HUMANS were injured!  How can you say 23 died but no one was injured?”

The eyes of the captive monkeys haunted me and I touched the outside of my pocket where I kept the crystal and grass.  After I arrived in Singapore I asked my friend Divya if there were any wild monkeys in the area and was excited to hear that her husband Josh had an ongoing encounter with a wild monkey on the NTU campus.  My eyes scanned the trees and lawns whenever walking.  For most of the week I kept the crystal and grass in my pocket while hoping to spot him.  The day after teaching a poetry workshop I walked from the building to find a small group of people photographing themselves with something in the background.  When I craned my neck I was excited to see two brown monkeys hugging one another near the pond.  All my life I had wanted to see monkeys who are FREE.  I sat in the grass and threw several pieces of fruit to the creatures.  One of them came over, then the other, eating delicious melon slices, their eyes and demeanor completely different from our enslaved cousins.  I placed the crystal and grass on the ground between us with a last melon slice.  When one monkey touched the crystal under the melon she LOOKED at me suddenly and ran away, agitated.  I admit feeling guilty for causing her anxiety with the message from our enslaved cousins but the other monkey hugged her and comforted her.  I took notes for the poem as they groomed each other and ran across the grass, their movements and play shaking off the humiliation and degradation of our cousins in Philadelphia.

It was one of the most exciting times of my life with nonhuman creatures.  I was high with joy the rest of the day.  Then after cooking dinner I turned on Channel News Asia and sat with my bowl of rice and beans.  I went from being thrilled and high to completely shocked when a reporter stood on a busy street in Tokyo where a chimpanzee named Chacha was on a telephone poll after escaping from the zoo.  Chacha had broken out of prison!  And at first I was excited.  It felt like a message.  It was a surreal coincidence.  How could this be?  Then a man shot a tranquilizer dart into Chacha’s shoulder and the beautiful animal who had looked happy to be out in the world felt immediate and intense pain.  Chacha SCREAMED at the man, then grew limp and fell to the outstretched net awaiting below.  Humans wrapped Chaca in a blanket and put him in a van and drove him back to prison for the rest of his life on this human-dominated planet.  Why do we cage animals?  Because we can!  Because they are weaker and we do not mind exploiting this weakness and sharing our authority over them on a Sunday afternoon with our children.  It is also more efficient to gather all the animals and put them in cages in one place near our homes rather than fly all over the globe to see them. 
Efficiency breeds brutality every single time.  Chaca, my heart breaks for you and want to visit you one day in the Tokyo Zoo (prison) and tell you in person that I love you but have no idea how to save you.  I unexpectedly took even more notes for the poem, the darkest of the day’s notes and watched the rebroadcast later in the evening to take more notes as Chacha screamed and fell from freedom all over again.  The nightmares of my sleep that night assured me that the world is as chaotic and vicious as I imagined, and took more notes upon waking.  Waking, we need to be waking.

(P.S. It was my luck that there were two monkeys.  My crystal and the messages from the incarcerated monkeys in America caused trauma to the one and if it were not for their companion I do not know how they would have been comforted.  Because the trauma was quickly extinguished I got to enjoy my day.  This is something I will never repeat.  It is bad enough that we humans cause so much suffering on the planet and I do NOT need to be spreading it around.  Healing needs to begin and soon.  The way we mistreat animals is evidence we are far from being able to rescue our own lives at this point.  We need to start spreading compassion.  Can we begin today please?  I am asking this to myself, and passing it along.)

Friday, March 11, 2016

MARFA Poetry Machine in 36 Things

                  --for Jason Dodge

The Lannan Foundation presented me with a generous fellowship to live and write in beautiful Marfa, Texas for two months.  My working class mother thinks I have pulled off a bank heist rather than anyone would be foolish enough to pay me to write my poems.  I said, “I know Mom I know, it is amazing with all the love our country gives to war and genocide that there is any left over for a poet!”  I did 36 Things a day for 36 days, taking notes between each Thing, the notes harvested later for the poems.  Here is a list of the Things I did each day to create the MARFA POETRY MACHINE:

Burn sage to honor a different living poet each morning, saying the poet’s name out loud while wearing a ceramic hamsa the poet Erica Kaufman gave me.  “This morning as every morning with poetry as my strength, I honor the poet ___________.”

Place the day’s food in a glass bowl surrounded by crystals that have been programed to boost cell proliferation and heighten organic vibrational patterns for greater nutritional gain.  The steady pulse of crystal frequencies saturating plants, beans and grains.

Watch sunrise on Edgar Cayce Institute Meditation Room webcam in Virginia Beach while giving Reiki to myself, preparing for the sun’s arrival in Texas.

An hour later watch sunrise on porch while giving myself Reiki.  Setting my day by the sun plugs me into a natural clock.

(I will have two sunrises a day with two time zones: One online in Virginia Beach, another in Texas.  But only one sunset to cheat the grave.)

While cooking breakfast play the album RISING by Yoko Ono next to the stove, her music finding its way into the fiber of the food as she sings, “Listen to your heart, respect your intuition, make your manifestation, there is no limitation, have courage, have rage, we’re all together.”

Chew each mouthful of breakfast 36 times, meditating on food cells becoming my own cells of Yoko-Crystal infusion.

Meditate on a postage stamp of Elvis Presley (a gift from friend Jenn McCreary) through a clear shaft of flawless citrine, the guardian gemstone of manifestation.

Wearing headphones sitting inside a closet with door closed listening to the length of a different Elvis song each day then as it finishes take notes by flashlight.

Standing in front of the house on Summer Street taking a slow 360-degree view, grateful for the people who make Marfa what it is.  You can surround yourself with the best art in the world, but what actually makes a town is its citizens, and Marfa is home to some of the most thoughtful people I have ever met. 

Sit on log bench in Summer Street Park.  Gaze at the landscape without blinking.  Close eyes and remember what was seen.  Open eyes and look for what was missed.  With each day the contents of the landscape grows more complete inside.  Later while falling asleep I visualize the park, recalling the details clearer and clearer throughout the 36 days.

Watch five and a half minutes of the movie GIANT that was filmed in Marfa (1955), starring Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson, and James Dean.  (Five and a half minutes times 36 is the length of the film).  “Bick, you shoulda shot that fella a long time ago.  Now he’s too rich to kill.” (A line of Uncle Bawley’s).

Focus on a color outside the Pueblo Market in the parking lot, buildings, or the sky: a yellow car or a bit of pink gum or an orange cat. Then walk the market aisles to find the same color on cans and other packaging and read the ingredients like on a can of peas as if it is the legend to a map.  And ask the label out loud, “HOW are these peas showing the way out of darkness to the sanctioned interior?”

All my life I have made friends with trees.  I take my magnifying glass to study the giant pine growing behind an abandoned building near Pueblo Market.  She is tall and old and Donald Judd must have taken notice of her perfect symmetry of branches holding herself in spaces of green, brown, and angelic exhale of crown.  There was an ant and I think she was the same ant, there most days crawling up the narrow ravines of bark.  I dabbed a little brown rice syrup on the bark, always eaten, always relished.

Place a penny on railroad tracks next to the post office.  Copper is the metal of Aphrodite – the goddess of Love – and we must not forget this, ever, that copper is her element on Earth.  Find flattened pennies from the day before and leave them on the sidewalk, squashed heads-up.

Walk a snake pattern through the long rows of enormous sotol plants at the corner of Oak & High outside Donald Judd’s Chinati Foundation.  This building houses the work of artist John Chamberlain and was originally known as Fort D. A. Russell.  In an essay, Judd wrote of the building and plants, “This large right angle was planted in a corresponding grid of sotol plants, an agave of the area, from which a liquor like tequila is made – just in case.”  (Reader, do you also LOVE the “just in case” at the end?)

At the Travis E. Self Memorial Park climb the sliding board.  Take notes at the top.  Send the notebook down the slide then follow it no matter who watches.

Climb hill near MARFA RAILROAD PEN.  Face across tracks, find three stationary objects then imagine a line connecting them.  Study contents of triangle especially look for the large dark chicken, she lives there and she is a beautiful chicken.

Sing to the large dark chicken even if she is not visible.  But sing like a chicken sing one very large dark chicken serenade she might appreciate.

Stand at intersection of Highland Avenue and San Antonio Street imagining a restaurant with a giant canvas at the entrance with brushes and paints for customers to use.  If a customer adds to the painting they get a free bottle of wine for their table.  The choice to not paint is a thousand dollars for a glass of water, a salad, or cookie, the high price of denying collaboration.

For years I have viewed Donald Judd’s work in museums as an immersed study on chakras, spinal discs aligned and often lit from within.  In Marfa I drive down route 67 South to see Judd’s massive concrete blocks in the desert, like the remains of a fallen giant a kilometer in length, spinal cord fossils with flesh of Texas wind and sand.  One afternoon two coyotes were having sex between the third and fourth vertebrate from the maw of the desert: a burst of pleasure beside the fallen.

Give a stranger a poetry broadside.

Read five pages a day of Marc Simmons’s 180 page book, WITCHCRAFT IN THE SOUTHWEST:  Spanish & Indian Supernaturalism on the Rio Grande.  (I found myself routing for the witches, no matter what misogynistic and bigoted prejudices the author attempted to instill.)

Each day sit on floor to follow Mary Wigman’s Witch Dance like a Jane Fonda workout video for the spirit.  I believe Wigman may be the first contemporary dancer to consciously use dance as trauma release.  In an interview she said, “I was once completely confused and unhappy.  I locked myself in the guest room of my parent’s home and in great consternation I sobbed and cried because I did not know anymore what to do with my life.  There on the spot I discovered suddenly that in all my unhappiness I was moving and I was moving in such a way that I had never moved before.  And also suddenly this moving became an expression, a speaking out.”  --Mary Wigman, dancer and choreographer.

The grocer said my sweet potato is organic, but I love all sweet potatoes, organic or filled with toxic sprays and fucked up genes.  I cradle my sweet potato, breast feed my sweet potato, rock her back and forth, singing her name, Tara, Tara OH MY LITTLE TARAAAAA.  My mother said this would have been my name if I had been born a girl.  I drew eyes, mouth, and painted a purple glitter skirt onto Sweet Potato Baby Doll.  I carry her with me in my bag to show to people I meet.  “Would you like to see Sweet Potato Baby Doll?  She is my avatar potato with a bit of lithium quartz embedded in her head to receive the transmissions of her day which is also our day.”

Close eyes and think of an embarrassment from the past.  Imagine the former self in the middle of the situation shrugging and laughing.

Find one natural item a day, a twig, little stone, feather, a bit of fluff on a breeze, and wind it, twist it into my longest strands of hair.  Leave it tangled in my hair while writing then untangle it.

Arrange found natural items on back porch, a growing machine.

28:  PAGE 36
Read page 36 of different books written by former Lannan Fellows.  For instance, “Expunging Palestinians politically or physically from Israel’s body politic is an idea with broad support within the admittedly narrow Zionist Political spectrum.” (from Ali Abunimah’s book The Battle for Justice in Palestine, from Haymarket Books.)

While cooking supper play the 2007 album YES, I’M A WITCH by Yoko Ono next to the stove, her music finding its way into the fiber of the food as she sings, “Yes, I’m a witch, I’m a bitch, I don’t care what you say, my voice is real, my voice is truth, I don’t fit in your ways...  Each time we don’t say what we want to say we’re dying.”

Chew each mouthful of my supper 36 times, meditating on food cells becoming my own cells of Yoko-Crystal infusion.

Watch sunset over the desert at end of Third Street while giving myself Reiki. 

Have one shot of Jack Daniels at The Lost Horse Saloon to meet people and enjoy this space where one night a woman rode a beautiful white horse INTO THE BAR!   Ask Tim Johnson at the Marfa Book Company, we were having a drink together.  The lost horse always finds its way.

Look for the Marfa Lights at the viewing station on Route 90.  Every night I saw them, sometimes as balls of white light rising from the earth, other nights riding the air sideways and changing colors.  Someone told me they were reflected car lights.  I said, “Oh really, then what were they in 1888 and earlier, long before the metal horse arrived in Marfa?”

Each night I play the CD DUET FOR PEN & PENCIL, ELECTRIC DIRT, composed by Christine Olejniczak.  Then I walk from room to room with a flashlight to study the house designed by architect Kristin Bonkemeyer.  I pause in each room to imagine her original blueprints of the building and say out loud, “THIS is where I write in Kristin’s drawing, THIS is where I play music in Kristin’s drawing; THIS is where I cook, eat and this is where I dream in Kristin’s drawing.”

Sit quietly on front porch hoping to spot the tribe of javelinas who like to eat the prickly pear cactus in the yard.  Several nights THERE THEY WERE, little chattering tusks, hairy, stinky, and glorious to behold.

Burn sage to honor a deceased poet each evening.  “This evening as every evening with poetry as my strength, I honor the poet ___________.”  For instance, R.I.P. Amiri Baraka who died the first week I was in Marfa.

I was raised by people who spent many years of their lives working in factories where they were treated like bad children who needed to be disciplined for demanding health care and a livable wage. They formed unions to combat the company, and local, state and federal governments all poised against them.  I did these 36 Things for them.  Freedom, poetry, and Love for them.  Amiri Baraka said, “A man is either free or he is not.  There cannot be any apprenticeship for freedom.”  The resulting poems are a poetic measurement titled WIDTH OF A WITCH ((SAMPLES of the poems HERE and HERE.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

from (Soma)tic Poetry Rituals I Want To Do But Will Not Be Allowed To Do: Presidential Shoe Transmission

Sit on the president’s shoes under their desk in the Oval Office.  The vibration of their blood pushing into me, their decisions for drone attacks and negotiations costing untold human lives coursing through my body as I write notes for a poem.  I will worry I am too heavy for their feet, but remind myself that they are the president and will not have a problem letting me know if their feet fall asleep.

Peel an orange and offer the first section to the president.  If they accept I must write notes while holding an exaggerated smile in the muscles of my face.  If they decline the fruit I will hold a frown in the muscles of my face.  A poet offering fruit to a president.  What does the orange feed both physically and spiritually?  How are we tied to policies of war and consumption by a president?  Take notes for the poem, waiting for them to leave the room, allowing me to find a bed or bathtub to curl inside for a nap.  When I wake I write more notes.