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I have to admit, yesterday’s poem was a toss-off. I’m ashamed of it. I don’t even know what it means. I broke the no-bs rule so that I could get this done with and hang out in our empty house with my HP. In doing so, I ignored what was truly speaking to my soul yesterday, and forgot the work of art. The work art does, I think, is to bring both great beauty and great evil to light. This piece, by Montana artist John Isaiah Pepion is incredible, and it is what I should’ve poemed about yesterday, if I hadn’t been so lazy.

Go to this link:

And Read these:
:1)     It will be a combination of a) Indigenous resistance, b) the President’s (and Nation’s!) enormous debt to Native people, and c) simple economics that kills the planet-destroying Keystone XL Pipeline.2)     There is no such thing as coincidence.

3)     There’s a reason why President Obama happens to want to come to the very heart of where this atrocity—the Keystone XL Pipeline—would pass through.

4)     At heart, despite many, many political compromises (which are the nature of the job, unfortunately), President Obama is a good man who wants what’s best for the planet and all of its residents.

5)     Therefore, he is going to Standing Rock—to Indian Country—to feel the power of the Indigenous resistance to dirty oil, so his spirit can feel the ancestors compel him to do the right thing.


Read more athttp://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2014/06/13/obama-standing-rock-and-keystone-xl-pipeline-shortest-thing-about-skins-column-ever
Here is how to recognize evil: when the most fitting metaphor for the thing you seek to describe is rape, then that thing is pure evil. The violation that is the Bakken formation and its devastating effects is the rape of the Earth, its evil remade with each assault. It may feel naive, to think that people matter enough to stop profit, but sometimes naiveté is bravery. The only answer is stopping this violence, now and for good, because if we allow it to continue, the message will be that violence, rape, and sex-trafficking is okay as long as big energy profits, and that message undercuts our very humanity.
This poem is going to get me right in gut, if I do it right. If it doesn’t, I will have failed, and will have to try again.
The Gorgon Over Bakken II
Each unanswered cry from her sisters disintegrates her wings, until the thick, black smoke breaks through the webby membrane, and she falls in trailing spirals into the dust. The siphons of profit sucking at her serpentine tongue until it rips loose in thin strings of black jelly that drip over her flat-ground teeth, the keening voices of discarded women growing fainter, causing black bile to rise in curses through her neck, the think billfolds tight hands around her esophagus, each stolen child, each broken human cry, steals the flame from her belly and turns it into weak and poisoned steam. Discarded in the waste water, flung down like a thing spiritless, to melt, to seep into the unlined groundwater of her holding, she begins to weep hot, black tears into the wastepool. She hears the songs of the women calling, sunk and wobbling under the deep, she hears them fighting with signatures and signs and law when the law has failed them, hears their cries like pulses heard underwater, gathering each violent story like blood coagulating in her gut, and with each clot coughed up gags her response, her snakes have drowned around her head. But the red eyes, darkbright cinders in the waters of unnatural hues, still glow. She listens. Waits. Waits for the stories of women to unsilence her, even the dead join in, we speak and she grows stronger, next time she won’t be taken down.
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I’m not sure if this is done. I do know that I feel better about it than I did about yesterday’s, so that’s good. Happy Saturday, Poem friends.

 

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