Hey y’all. I’m reading @ Brooklyn Park in 20 minutes at the faces.
Join me. http://www.portlandonline.com/parks/finder/index.cfm?PropertyID=67&action=ViewPark

Thanks to Naomi and Roland for this:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/naomi-fast/a-poem-for-100-thousand-poets-for-change/10150341327511489

A poem for “100 Thousand Poets For Change”
It seems to go without saying that people write love poems; the following is a money poem.

Hail To The Coin

Give us this day our daily bread,
that our commerce
may be slick, and heavy.

That we may transact in its value–
though intrinsically we know it has none–
and give Caesar what Caesar is due.

That billions of us
may affirm its platonic fictions
each day. (God only gets Sunday.)

But if myth is God, “In you we trust,”
at the same time we take your name in vain.

Admit it: on the street,
Gotta a dime for the bus?
is a character in the story
we’d rather see die off.

***
-Roland Couture & Naomi Fast
9/24/11 for 100 Thousand Poets For Change
http://www.wordstothewind.com

The following poems for change were sent to me by Garret Potter (garretpotter@yahoo.com)

Insurrection with gratitude
by Garret Potter

I heard someone at the door, so I closed the chapter of my book,
and went to see who was there..
Opening, I saw my roommate, fumbling with his keys,
looking as if he’d seen a ghost.
Coming in, he got out slowly, that
he just heard a Rwandan refugee tell his story…
and how that man told him,
that out of genocide he learned…

“if you hate what is evil
more than you love what is good
you will not survive.”

His words ran away from his mouth like fugitive prisoners of war,
and they came for me.
Taking the short end of the stick I thought I was holding
they carved it into (something like) a pairing knife,
with which they proceeded to peel back,
layer after layer of
hate, rage, bitterness,
discontent, apathy, cynicism, and arrogance.

And when they were done (whittling,)
they handed me their masterpiece:

A vivid still-life depicting rich scenes from my (life) story.
(I will try to describe them for you)

10.
I have witnessed the graceful landing of glistening snowflakes
on carefree heads and resting land.

9.
I have run on busy urban autopilot,
until a clear day occasion,
catching a glimpse of Mt. Hood
that bungee jump cable arrests and retracts to zoom out my point of view.

8.
I have felt the warm scintillating magnetism of a woman’s soft skin.

7.
I have gazed into the unpredictable flickering orange dance of (a camp)fire.

6.
I’ve seen, (through the privilege of compulsory education),
the wonders of life, birth, season’s change, and death
through microscopes that cannot get small enough,
through telescopes that cannot reach far enough–

From the immeasurably small to the infinitely large,
I’ve marveled at all of it,
with involuntary muscles aiding in my experience of…

5.
the fantasaic perfume of late summer’s honeysuckle,

4.
the intoxicating aroma of peach colored roses.

3
the decadent drink of ripened mango(s),

2.
the savory succulent taste of roast meat,

1.
the smooth soothing security in a sip of milk.

I have loved each of these.
(And through these, the Sovereign Artisan has manifest [ingenious] artistry).

Yet, that refugee’s words echo
and I know that these are the easy things…
so good that you can love them and not overpower your (own) hatred.

Because I hate…
the persistence of war and genocide (in Uganda and Sudan).
I am brought to my knees by painful grudges held against me by ex-loves,
or indifferent consumer exploitation,
and the misallocation of overabundant resources failing to make it to stomachs of starving children.

But, I will NOT let hatred shut me down to futility.
I will NOT let it kill me.

No, with humming bird green-blue eyes,
I want to seek and drink nectar from the veins of life,
I want to shake the sky until it bleeds rain,
falling around us all like baptism,
washing the enemy out of friends,
bringing laughter back to aged children.

I want to come to a place of love
for the (good) things in life
that are so difficult they almost kill me.

Only the best things have (such) capacity
for (both) devastation and nourishment.

to love the feel of my second hand pair of jeans
even if they were first made by the hands of child slaves,

to love the adrenal high of initiating a first date,
even though I remember far too many last ones,

to love getting married some day
even though it didn’t work for my parents,

To love that awkward phone call from my father,
even if it is five deprecating months too late,

To love planting seeds in my garden,
even though I don’t think I will renew
close to what I have consumed,

To love living in Portland, Oregon,
even though it was stolen by force
from the only people who chose to live with it sustainably,

To escape the despairing death of futility,
and close the last chapter of my story,
knowing that when my roommate stood at that door,
looking as if he’d seen a ghost,
it was because
his old self had been stripped away,
and in its place,
gratitude (a)woke someone new.

The Whispers And Cries of Earth’s Body Language
by Garret Potter

When it takes most humans a year
(from birth) to learn to walk,
Within hours from exiting the womb
these creatures (can) run!

It is said that when a newborn giraffe stands for the first time
its mother kicks it over.
It stands again, on newborn legs,
and then she kicks they down again,
and again,
until they learn to move
in this habitat inhabited with predators
…who will prey on anything to survive,
regardless of its size.

Six feet long and stretching,
(stretching) up to eighteen feet (tall);
Giraffes can amass
up to four thousand pounds.
Clothed with gold and black patches,
beyond (merely) eye-catching,
emitting their body heat through intricate spots.
They can swat bugs off their heads
using only their eighteen inch blue tongues,
reaching past huge thorns at Acacia leaves,
while grazing the savanna.
high sight from their majestic heads,
low arcing their distinctive necks,
they sleep while standing,
across the continent of Africa.

Giraffes come from somewhere.

BUT, WHERE WILL WE SEND THEM?
FROM AFRICA TO ANOTHER CONTINENT?
Like us affluent Americans
who take fuel-pollutant continental flights over oceans,
at Superman heights,
peering through oval windows―
at mountainous snowy cloud puffs,
glimmering in the sunlight
UNHINDERED BY OBSTRUCTION,
FILTERED ONLY THROUGH OZONE,
THE GLASS CASE TO OUR SNOW GLOBE.

OUR GLOBE…
COMPLETE WITH ITS POLAR ICE CAPS,
IS MELTING LIKE A POP-SICKLE
IN OUR FICKLE HAPHAZARD STEWARDSHIP:

OIL SPILLING BLACK MASS-
TRANSIT GREEN HOUSE GASES
SMOG SENDING ACID RAINS
WE TASTE TEST THE FACT THAT
WE ARE OUR OWN LAB RATS
POLLUTING OUR OWN CABBAGE PATCH
WITH NICOTINE SMOKE STACKS
AND PALLET JACKED HABITS THAT
DON’T RUB OFF WITH ALCOHOL
OR LAST CALLS TO PHARMACIES,
TO HARM THE SEEDS
WE MODIFY GENETICALLY.
AESTHETICS PLEASE,
WHEN EVERYTHING IS PACKED IN PLASTIC,
AND SEALED BY EXECUTIVES WHO STEAL
FROM THEIR HARD-WORKING SLAVE LABORERS
SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO FEEL
AN OUNCE OF PAIN,
(WHILE) THE MOUNTAINS DRIP,
THE RIVERS DRAIN,
THE SOIL DRIES,
THE FORESTS CRY,
AND SPECIES DIE,
WHILE UNDERNEATH ELECTRIC LIGHTS
WE HUMANS WASTE AWAY INSIDE
THE COFFIN-HOMES WE BUILD TO KEEP US SAFE,
LOCK AND KEY FROM OUR MISTAKES.

ARE WE INSANE? …PERHAPS.

BECAUSE, GIRAFFES COME FROM SOMEWHERE,
(AND) IF YOU TAKE AWAY GIRAFFES,
the Acacia ants leave,
AND THE ELEPHANTS DESTROY THE ACACIA TREES.

IF YOU TAKE AWAY GIRAFFES,
THE TICKS LOSE THEIR HOST;
SO THE TICK-BIRDS STRUGGLE TO FIND A FOOD SOURCE.

WE ARE KILLING OUR PLANET.
BUT WHY WOULD WE WANT TO DO THAT?
IT’S SO NICE HERE.

LISTEN…TO EARTH’S BODY LANGUAGE.
WE ARE CONSUMING AND BARELY RENEWING
ENDING THE SUSTAINING AGE OF “WILDLIFE.”
WILD! (BEAUTIFUL) LIFE!

IT MATTERS WHAT HAPPENS!
SO GET MADDER THAN YOU HAVE BEEN
IT IS NOT TOO LATE TO SLOW THE DECAY.
To breathe blamelessly–
being creative with things.
And renew what’s been consumed.
Because what’s been done before–
destruction–needs not endure.

Let’s save endurance for all that needs saving.
It’s not ours for the wasting.

At least that’s…
what giraffes are saying.

A bottle of safety (so they tell me)
by Garret Potter

Note: “wfffht” denotes the spray of a spray bottle when performed live

I love when I hear “wfffht;”
(I love the sound it makes),
the sound created by the friction of a liquid
dispatched from the narrow nozzle of a spray bottle.
I love the feel of its trigger
(and the potential energy) in my first finger.
I feel power to irrigate
(wffffffffht) like a light rain
(wfffht, wfffht) like fireworks burst,
(whhfffht) like falling from a trapeze into a safety net.

I listen…
at 111 West Burnside, Portland, Oregon,
I am working another twelve hour graveyard shift
at the Rescue Mission.
Our doorway is the funnel,
whereby Portlanders are collected,
who each are one strike, one pay check,
one family and friend short
of keeping the American illusion of independence.

Like Quinn,
who tells me,
“I know you are trying to do good,
but this is not a safe place to be.”
I tell him,
“there are no safe places, Quinn.
The only place that is safe
is the company of someone who chooses to embody safety.
“There are no safe places,” I tell him,
“but you can offer one to me.”
With a smile and a hug,
he returns to circling, and I go into work.

One of my many overnight duties is cleaning–
one of the only entities I can control.
So, I am trigger happy!
following my own advice to Quinn,
As I spray, I listen…

Shane enters in at 2AM
when the queer bar closes down
twelve blocks from here in Old Town
he’s been weathering the winters
without a home, now
for the past six years,
He’s not only shivering from the cold,
But from the symptoms of HIV,
Heart-ache, addiction, and fear.
When my friend Shane walks in
to wash away the sediment,
I’ve got got a towel in my hand,
wiping down the glass,
the counter tops,
the sink, the toilet seat,
the computer, phone, doorknobs…everything,
with a sanitizing solution
that makes music when dispensed.
I raise my ear hairs to attention…wfffht!

(*optional verse depending on length requirement)

As Tom walks in the door at 3:15 AM
Dirty and cold again
Tired but somewhat cheerful.
I ask, “What’s going on Tom?”
“Oh, back out here on the street,” he says.
After another thirty day go round in temporary housing,
he couldn’t save up enough to make it into his own rental,
nor has he mustered the humility to admit to his fully grown kids
that he lives outside, downtown, as he feels he has to,
And as Tom and I converse,
I’ve opened the dispensers,
replacing the paper towels, refilling the sanitizer, (and cleaning)
sharing the sweet safe symphony of…wfffht!

I love how each trigger’s-pull,
plays the single key of this liquid instrument,
each spray reverberates like a twin stack of Yamaha speakers,
singing, pounding, moving me
killing every germ in its path,
freeing me from tragedy… for a moment,
until I hear bare feet barreling toward me…
Something is wrong!

At 4AM this morning,
Cameron is woken from a comatose
detoxing restless sleep,
after flooding his mouth for thirty straight years;
the (past) three days without beer,
have been a cataclysmic interruption,
His body is lets him know
like an angry volcano,
trapping him on his mat in the mission,
requiring paramedic intervention,
waking the seventy five men next to him.

And as Cameron exits on a stretcher,
I enter my own world,
of water falls and paradise lagoons,
each spray projecting much needed imagery
reminding me of a desired reality,
in place of these traumatic graveyard tragedies
teaching lessons learned the hardest ways–
that even inside the shelter of a rescue mission,
no one but I can truly save me from myself
no one but he can choose to save him from himself.
And all I want is to help…

So I spray again, and I pray again,
I spray again, and I pray again,
I spray and I pray again…
for one last time part-time
hourly (pay) night shift with no health benefits
except this bottle of safety mist solution,
Which is all the more why I pray,
and why I love…the sound…it makes…
(wffffffffht) like a light rain
(wfffht, wfffht) like fireworks burst,
(whhfffht) like falling from my knees into the hands of angels.