Roland Haumont immediately began shouting to his wife, at their house in Montreal, in his thick French accent, “Valerie is accusing me of sexual abuse! Valerie is accusing me of sexual abuse!” She hadn’t referred to abuse, and she hadn’t referred to sex. Make what you will of this. I have.
They never spoke again. He died a year or two later, never incarcerated for what appears to have been a lifetime of sticking his nasty dick into his own children. Sort of like Mo Sandstead, free to this day after a career on the bench with a vodka bottle in his chambers. Somehow the crimes of these two miserable fucks have gotten attached to my life. Today I begin un-attaching them.
Good day, Morris Sandstead. Good day, Tess Englund. Let’s talk.
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sight of your cities
pains the eyes of the red man.
But perhaps it is because the red man is
a savage and does not understand. There is no quiet
place in the white man’s cities, no place to hear the leaves
of spring or the rustle of insects’ wings. Perhaps it is
because I am a savage and do not understand,
but the clatter only seems
to insult the
Indian prefers the
soft sound of the wind darting
over the face of the pond, the smell of
the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain,
or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious
to the red man, for all things share the same
breath — the animals, the trees, the man.
Like a man who has been dying for
many days, a man in your
city is numb to the
obama, free the body
and beautiful soul
Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie
Dust unto dust
The calm earth mothers all who die
As all men must
Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell
Too strong to strive
Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,
But rather mourn the apathetic throng
The cowed and the meek
Who see earth’s great languish and its wrong
And dare not speak.
(an activist in the
International Workers of the World,
who was jailed four years for
hindering the draft in
is an absolute necessity
for anybody today. You must have a room,
or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know
what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know
who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody,
you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where
you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and
what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation.
At first you may find that nothing happens there.
But if you have a sacred place and use it,
something eventually will