Archive for protest

With A Raised Fist by Joseph Farley

Posted in Joseph Farley with tags , on December 27, 2011 by Scot

My will cannot be broken,
at least not any more than it already is.
I have the strength of grape soda,
and nearly twice the fizz.
I shall rot your teeth and stain your clothing,
but I shall never yield.
I shall remain forever angry
and yelling at the moon.

Occupy by Paul Bach

Posted in Paul Bach with tags , , on December 27, 2011 by Scot

From a voice
for decades
is the only answer,
I’m with you

Calmer heads prevail
peaceful gatherings
coast to coast
and rising
nation to nation,
I’m with you

From miles and continents away
yet by your
I’m with you

Ninety-nine is more
than one
and always will be

With a Guy Fawkes mask
in one hand,
I’m with you

With the shade of Thoreau
and a copy of “On Civil Disobedience”
in the other,
I’m with you

“Letter from Birmingham Jail”
MLK, join hands
I’m with you

Readings on site
all over the country
of Ginsberg’s “America”
resurrect his spirit,
I’m with you

The creaking of branches
a low rumble is heard
exhaling through the leaves
the voice of Whitman
echoes off the buildings
the trees, the hills
I’m with you

I’m with you.

Revolution was about pussy by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags , on December 27, 2011 by Scot

Revolution was about pussy
more pussy
strange pussy
better drugs
more drugs
a free spot to crash

All night strategy sessions
Mao’s red book
working Che into the conversation
nodding to the awful obvious music
these rituals were to be practiced
to be endured.

The worst were the mass movements
the tribal gatherings
sit-ins were preferable
to the awful marching
the signs and slogans
chanting in unison.

And now wandering this Occupation
Grand Circus Park in the 3-1-3
faces are again young & sensual
slumming & kinky in tent city
a new wisdom permeates
ignore organization
abandon philosophy.

A sleeping bag is hung in the wind
bodily fluids are drying
a young male in a Sherpa hat
sidles up to a young female
bowing to cell phone texting
silently weighing his chances.


Posted in Ray Foreman with tags , , on December 26, 2011 by Scot

W.G. Wells wrote the book,
a movie with Raymond Massey followed
in the thirties.
Some things anchor in my mind for years.

These last months, on TV, I see it
in their faces, there seems to be a joy
in the way they swing their batons
in Oakland, in Liberty Park, especially
in Chicago at the unarmed protesters
who refuse to fight back.
No difference men, women, young people,
older people.
Chicago in 1968, same difference.

They call themselves, “police” as if
the word excuses their behavior
and gives their brutality justification.

* * *

In a small rented conference room in
the Regis Hotel on Clark Street
he was one of the few 1930s socialists
still alive.|
He speaks to an audience of 36, mostly
older people who came to hear what he says
will be his last speech.
The audience, what once were in the hundreds,
has evaporated.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” a woman, probably in
her late seventies, asks. It is more a statement
than a question.

“Pretty much for a lot of people,”
the speaker replies, “not all, but for many.
Back in 1938 we never figured the good
days of the twenties would ever come back.
Then came the war, people had jobs
and those we called poor,
rose from destitution and utter poverty.
Mostly I saw that ordinary people
were able to send their children to college
and rise above their prewar stations.

“My grandfather saw the power
of wealth rising after the Civil War,
and is still rising.
He didn’t say it but I am,
that because  the country is divided
into powerful separate states that vie
for political and economic power,
and religious power and recognition
unlike that of European Nations,
our elected leaders have other things
on their minds other than the citizenry.

“I’m not sure how right he was when
he said there may come a time when
most people will swim in the current.
Those who can’t swim will drown and
that will be accepted as normal.”

A much older man stood up.
“Nature has a way of evening things out.
Things are happening, climate change,
breathing air is polluted,
water in many places isn’t fit to drink
unless it’s doctored.
Then, and it’s possible like
the 1918 flu epidemic, millions died
all over the world.
And maybe the new epidemics will be
man made like EMF waves
from WIFI and cell phones.
And of course, a nuclear screw up in New York
City like the one in Japan?”

The meeting broke up at 9 PM.
A new recently passed law required
gatherings of more than ten people
to disband at 9 PM.

The Beginning by Winnie Star

Posted in Winnie Star with tags , on December 19, 2011 by Scot
no money in the bank no money in the wallet
no money money money
where is my money you holder of your big fat sum?
you 1% don’t understand like i do
do you fuckin’ care that i have none
to own or share?
at the local food shelter table i sit
waiting for food and a warm glance from
the lady that volunteers her time
for those of us – is it the 99%
who have nothing to share or wear
remember us you 1%?
lay down your gun, police man, and i will give you my flowers
the ones i picked today
from the gardens around the hall of justice building
where i walk each day to see justice being done

NEED by Kenneth Pobo

Posted in Kenneth Pobo with tags , on December 17, 2011 by Scot

One man can need plenty,
in fact, plenty isn’t nearly enough.

A dollar leads to a dollar and soon
you’re climbing a dollar ladder
well beyond trees.  You crave the sky
and would buy it
if you could, but you only have
a few million.  You build

a mansion and put in a room
with a skylight.  It isn’t
enough.  It’s never enough.

You ask Jesus to give you the sky now,
not when you’re in Heaven—what
fun is that?  He’s not listening.
He’s bandaging the wounds
of a guy you trampled on your
way to the ladder.  You think

about great parties you could host,
people lounging on clouds, angels
serving shaken-not-stirred martinis.
your wife looking like a boutique
with good hair.  Sometimes

the sky gets a particular light
blue shade, matching your favorite
wine glasses, imported from Martinique.
But you know the sky

is the dream
you can’t make real—you walk under it,
look up, your whole life
like a picture window that broke
on the coldest night of the year.

Occupying Sherman Street by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags , , on December 16, 2011 by Scot

So there’s two more guys living in their cars right on Sherman Street that leads to my work I saw one this morning in his late model truck cab-over,sitting upright in the driver’s seat squirming in restless sleep, uncomfortable in the hot sun at 9:00AM; the other living in a shitty older van but still, his own shelter from the storm newspaper covering windows in back he even sweeps the sidewalk where the double doors open up, along with five or more RV’s that live right on Sherman Street, rotating curb space every 48 hours so the cops don’t bust them, and keep close to the storage center next door to my gov job in the warehouse district, containing all their worldly goods…and this is Point Loma, home to Nazarene University, theologians and debutantes,and military facilities SPAWAR the top retired Admirals and Colonel’s and their lush seaside homes wide streets flanked with palm trees and our old hippie haven Ocean Beach, once called the 3rd Haight at the end of the pier, dog beach and smokeshop The Black where I still buy my incense you can smell the sapphire ocean on days with an off-shore breeze…

and I drive down to sit by the sand for lunch to calm my restless mind and pass the homeless in groups or alone on every street corner and intersection stained hands held out in a timeless way but with handmade signs – “I served our Country – Please help”  “Will work for Food” “I have nothing, anything helps” and these  days of recession family and friends losing their jobs/homes, so I try to heed the dire warnings of the money experts on TV,swallowing down panic, and save/pay down the credit and just use my debit card for stuff I need but still, carry some quarters a little extra weight in my pockets to remind me.