I have no problem with the men who wear clothes like these.

They are men.

They were birthed by mothers they love.

Mothers need hospitals and paved roads to get there.

When everyone is killed

Soldiers will fail mothers.

Killers will fail each other.

Hate will see itself clearly in the mirror.

Then killers,


And propagators of violence

May see the control they sought was fear itself.

They may understand that الله‎ has nothing to do with control of man.

But what can man understand?

I’m a man too and I understand very little.

I too would wear clothes like these

And protect my mother and family.

Guns pointed at my family,

I too would kill so my family might not be harmed.

My cheeks, both of them, would face dead-ahead and not turn away.

You see,

Clothes don’t make no difference at all

We are workers and fighters all

Which side are you on?


I’m looking for an honest man,

A man that lives for truth

And in truth.

I’m searching for a man that’s not afraid to live,

To really live.

Ah, we who know how to live, how burdened we are by truth!

Always asking if we should give ourselves away, like Nachiketa.

Examples burning holes in us:


Mother Teresa,

Every Buddha begging with her bowl,

Every true Jesus wailing and surrendered to nailing.

An honest man does not shrink

And talk only of white oaks and maples.

He does not fear to loose everything

And talks about power and money.

He burns every bridge until he calls out to the heavens:

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?

And then he surrenders all

And he lets every last petal fall.



Catalpa speciosa, sing her praises
Now is her season to reign
Rain white blooms down
Remember her fondly again

It is best that we are remembered in our season
When our love has bright tracks
Pointing the way inside
And even the bumblers share in adoration
And are anointed
Marked kings in passing

Kings of June’s first kiss
Flying onward
Spreading the message of love
Catalpa speciosa, remember her this way
When she rains down blossoms
And you walk on flowers
Remember her this way



Farmer wakes up in the morning and eats gravel for breakfast.
If she gets hungry after that, it’s poke shoots or greenbriar.

If she’s not bucking logs
Or cutting somebody’s balls off,
Then she’s starin’ down the sun
Asking who made who
And what made what

For lunch a farmer eats wood.
And she eats lots of it
Cause it’s gonna be a while till the day’s done.

There’s hay and water and dirt and blood
And if there’s nothing else to do
Then she’s post hole digging
Putting up fence.

For supper farmer eats metal.
Cattle pannels are her favorite
But hog pannels’ll do.
And after eating she flosses with barbed wire.

You might think she drinks glyphosate
But she doesn’t.
Real farmers don’t drink at all
They eat snow.

You find yourself a farmer
Hold tight
Cause farmers are something special
Like a Jesus face in the rust of an old pickup truck.


A poorly located wood-stove heats the house.
I kneel before it, thinking holy.
Making offering,
Making cremation,
Warming myself.

I am like the willow bent down by the snow.
Branches on the ground,
Crown bowed,

I found myself talking to the fire.
“That’s it”, I said
“You’re doing a great job.”

Then I went out
Snow to my knees
Song sparrow come close
Canes break like candy

Where the snow dropped from the branches,
And the wind from the north-west came across it,
I walk on top.

Crossed the creek to call on a Russian friend of mine, Dolgo.
“My feet are warm”, she said

It is the coldest day in 29 years and I can’t keep from going out.
I will burn my face in the wind, looking
I will marvel at my fingers going numb

These are the days to feed fires inside you
Make offering
You’re doing a great job



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