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It takes me awhile to process the world. Sometimes it takes a long long time, and sometimes it just comes spilling out. I can never tell what will come pouring over the falls, but sometimes the fast water carries me over the rock without much warning.

I might write another political poem. I might have to have some thoughts that spill out on the page in the same manner that they come intruding into my brainspace, and I might have to throw down loud. It is a good thing.

Hands Up

Hands Up, we are unarmed, we un-arm ourselves, and use our arms to buttress the stories, and are unarmed by every gaze and recording, this gaze, it un-arms us. The weapons are taken from our mouths by bright pretty photos and melodious words, when you take me to large meeting of the like-minded and no on is arrested, then isn’t the protest wasted, doesn’t it feel like our tongues are spent and we are weaponless now? What is a voice against a megaload? What is one anything against any other thing? What is the Earth armed with besides bugs? Are we all unarmed?

Or no, we are armed with our tongues backed by our hearts. When the birds in the trees learn that plumage hate, when they learn to peck at difference, then I will believe in the end of days. Today, oh, today we are armed with knitted speech, all knots and ropes and dedication, today we take up the needles of words and sounds,

making wool. Hands up and working, in the twilight, hand up and working for justice, hands up on our knees for the fallen, hands up for the gunned down, hands up for the slain, hands up now, up, up, hands up and working for peace.


all hands in the air now, all hands. love you, poemfriends.