"**Video Interviews w/ White Slough Residents**".

This isn't really a piece, but nonetheless, it's sentiments from the soul.

Vallejo homeless residents have been socially invisible for far too long. If you haven't heard, the homeless residents of the White Slough, a marshland area behind Sonoma Blvd., were "evicted" on Friday, 3/6/09 from their dwellings without any alternatives or aid. It's not the fault of the police or the city per say - it's our entire city's fault. And now we need to work together to find solutions. By advocating for our vulnerable homeless population, we're practicing real compassion and community, plus we'd be improving the quality of life in the city for ALL.

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From ServeOurVallejoHomeless.blogspot.com:

We feel that it's absolutely essential to hear from the residents themselves. We need to hear their stories. Marc Garman of Vallejo Independent Bulletin and community volunteer Doug Darling did some great work capturing sentiments shared by the some of the White Slough residents. But the real work was done by the homeless residents who resiliently continue to endure. Special thanks to those who graciously shared their stories with the public. Footage was shot on 3/4/09 and can be found at http://ibvallejo.com/ or http://vimeo.com/3497529.

We hope this adds a deeper human dimension to the oversimplified "issue" of homelessness in Vallejo.


White Slough Homeless Encampment--3/4/09 from Marc Garman on Vimeo.

To help, visit ServeOurVallejoHomeless.blogspot.com
or email ServeOurVallejoHomeless@gmail.com

Peace and Godspeed!

Dreamscapes...

"The dreamer is the designer of tomorrow. Practical men... can laugh at him; they do not know that he is the true dynamic force that pushes the world forward. Suppress him, and the world will deteriorate towards barbarism. Despised, impoverished, he leads the way... sowing, sowing, sowing, the seeds that will be harvested, not by him, but by the practical men of tomorrow, who will at the same time laugh at another indefatigable dreamer busy seeding, seeding, seeding."

-Ricardo Flores Magon (June 28, 1921)

misunderstanding

the cosmic depths of sedation
ransacked time suspended imagination
beneath old warriors and weary bones
lay rolling scrolls of sorrows
static motion caged in lost visions
apologetically chasing ancient allegories
roaming over the multiple expanses
spying wounded cities in peril
navigating tropes and plot twists
the dust refuses to settle
bridges nearly drowning in flames
and all directions point to narrow straights

i've missed the subtle inquiry
the midday rendezvous
the midnight lullabies
reminiscing adventures to a sweet chorus
while lying on lilies
untainted whispers caught in dew drops
and the message was the moment

but that was easy
soul-numbing, comfort-wielding easy

breath in with forgiven lungs
and listen with a chiseled heart
for fragmented palatal glimpses
of higher elevations
sensory derivation
rhythm in flux
could be drowned in elation

its been far too long Father
eternities it seems
since we've requested a prodigious journey
to roll back the sheath
and swiftly strike for boundless joy
and battle with aching hands held
in ragamuffin victory

liberate our captive passions
and captivate us in your liberation
stir a mighty confluence
of introspection and fraternity
of wisdom and recklessness
of action and humility

i too often wonder
when inhibitions will be overcome
when calculations will be confounded
when comforts will be violently dismantled
and our loss will be gain
let our wonder be a faint memory

to the "radical" becoming ordinary
and the abundance of "enough "

Love guided transformation
inside and out
home and abroad
roots and branches
in, through, and despite me

a new currency

my currency

is not green

its currently a current

my right to redefine in its urgency

the manifestation of materialism i abhor in me

the difference will be in how i define my productivity

seek and grow the area of my heart

with the most surface visibility

without servicing the american benefactor in me

its a displaced familiarity

a binary bifurcation of holistic identity

there’s power elusive to the homegrown refugee

deflowering the innocent hour poisoned for its profitability

sure as hell, i don't want that to be my legacy

the slave master, the slave

the ignorant pastor, the depraved

the cynical bastard

away from all of the above i try to run faster

I’m tired of being unprepared just waiting for my next self initiated disaster

but detractors are behind and beside me

counter with brighter loveshine that exists inside of and despite me

prayerfully its confidante of serendipity

the idealistic daydreams bubbling inside my complacency

see its always been a part of me

when freedom's child learns how to speak

no

when she opens her mouth in unison with the symphony to teach

then make music more captivating than the powerfuls’ unloving mystique

cuz im in the minority

i believe that the lion will maintain his supernatural authority

yet one day fulfill his priority of holding hands with the poor and the weak

the marginalized and the meek

and the struggle like a vicious cycle will always its find a way to reside in me

i want it to be

cuz i want every exhale from this weary chest

to be a humble plea

for interdependence and collectivity

for the furtherance of a kingdom that’s infinitely larger than me

the right to righteousness is rightfully outside of me

and i long to realize the vision of an unconditionally inclusive we

you see my currency

is not green

my medium of exchange remains

unseen but most importantly

free

like me

snip snip snippet

i have heard the constant push of change
first the subtle kisses of the wind
then affectionate rumbles of tomorrow's storms
i can hear
the cries of agony from dethroned kings and kingdoms usurped by foolish love
the roaring of peace as powers topple over into humble new beginnings
the dancing of systems transformed by the rhythm of the powerless and their simple values

i can hear it
profound and clear
gathering and fast approaching
organically organizing
as i rest my head
next to an angel

i close my eyes
forget time and space and theory and worry
and quietly i listen
to a steadfast current
as steady as the inevitably of change
and as strong as the hands that craft that change

would you believe me if i told you
that i hear the revolution brewing inside of you
bubbling into music all too familiar
it whispers me home
calling me to my Maker
etching my name in star shine

i feel it
in your bones
the restlessness
the incessant beating in your chest
the yearning in your loins
the fever on your skin
i know it
because everyday
i hear it and i feel it
because it resides inside of me too

you and i
we are infinitely linked
into this web we call hope
woven by the Author of another way
an alternative to the approach we have inherited
and
it is
possible
to make possibility
a viable reality
a succulent suggestion of heaven
a stolen scene from a kingdom beyond us

because someone once said
imaginary doesn't mean its non existent
imaginary doesn't mean its non existent
imaginary doesn't mean its non existent
i believe it
i believe in imagination
because unknowingly
you teach me so much about it
everyday

i see us joining hands held
marching to the margins
bringing truth to relevance
waking to work
loving to fruition
in very small
but always
celebrated steps
imperfectly glorifying the Father
as the mustard seed movement quietly thrives

let us run unrelenting in step with the children of the sun
as our brows stain with the heat of this beautiful struggle
and i tell you its time for us to shine
knowing you are a child of the sunset
and i'm hoping that whenever you fall sunset
the Lord will rise me in your stead
to maintain playing on even fields
of greener grass
and lands that remain in the hands of those who tirelessly choose to cultivate it daily...

let me tell you about story

i’m still learning how to unwrap the gift of story
i sometimes think my palms weren’t meant to handle something so profound
my voice not melodic enough for her music
my existence too insignificant to be added to her text

i mean, she’s story
a timeless personification the world over
a tongue sharpened allegory
and make no mistake
story never existed for her own glory
she tells triumphant tales of victory
teaches lessons in a sojourner’s defeat
calls upon potent vessels of revolution
cause see
she, unlike me
has danced in perfect stride with sister spontaneity
to the unmingled music of the moon
her silhouette formed by the glow of brother fortune’s foretold
the ferment of story verbalized in bold
in an hour shes called upon one hundredfold
watch historic layers give way as her legacy unfolds

she has even migrated west
to watch the absence of both rest and even upward mobility
her fertility inhabits the heart songs of the destitute
she was raised in the home of barren and broken tributes
ripened to caress the calloused earth that pains
she has chronicled ancient text spent lifetimes to obtain
and to a hero’s disdain
story outlasts even the steadfast to remain
etched into my palms before I could grasp the symbol of a fist
story has felt the pulse of the fallen brown warrior and matriarch
and tasted the tears that only real hope can spark
but with the rhythmic beats of native drumming
story continues

coloring the history of the rising of the sun
huddling together inside the encampment walls
wielding a pen with ferocity and fidelity
blessing the mic under lackluster lighting
cutting through the unbearable stench of rolling hills of waste
reminiscing under the soft glow of street corner lamplight

like i told you
i am still learning how to unwrap the gift of story
for i am forever indebted to story
i am her child, her muse, her vehicle
my entrails were picked apart and branded by story
and as i grew, my passions were shaped by story
i am carried to neverland by her moonlit soliloquy
yet i am violently awakened by her screams for equity
but she continues to hold my hand as we walk backwards from the past
i grip tightly with the wind at my back,
we two, are protectors of the sun
she, like the wind, carries the solemn whispers to the corners of the earth

story is our impetus
a reactionary measure
meant to share ourselves with others
so live and let story, give and get story
cause story waits for no man
and i have never met a man that wasn’t willing to listen to story
learn to unwrap this gift the world calls story
so you and i can be blessed

an excerpt from an old cheesy one

you and i
we
a glimpse
a note
a painting
a shared vision of sunsets set in utopias unknown to this earth
a premeditated, preconceived notion
of consummate unity
wholeness
being one
that love truly does exceed all limitations
break down all barriers
and dismantle all defenses
in a world devoid of collectivity and love
we're not perfect
but you and i
we'll strive to give ourselves as bridges over spaces that lack
we'll live in the rewards of our decorated past
i'll let you be you and me be me
but grow closer to shared peace than we ever thought before
you say let the hurts lay in yesterday's fragility
and i say look forward to tomorrow beginnings
but the present exists as a balance of the two
and we live in all three
even if urgency inhabits the moment
we can never forget that a moment is but a mere twinkle
a piece of sunshine in the eyes of the light
and your eyes tell me you love me
they smile away the inconsequential
they allow me to dream about memories both past and yet to be
they pierce each layer of my weary soul
and thats where we'll really live
you and i
in each other

my heartbeat at 1:00am

i'm beginning to breathe again
in this rebirth
the rocky trail of imperfect intent and misdirected direction
my footsteps are moist with tears and vanquished dreams
the narrow straits of this labyrinth are messy
but there's one truth i take solace in

i'm a wounded healer

i'm respectfully moving forward as i walk with this beautiful limp
i humbly hold my scar tissues skyward in transparency
i realize it's impossible to enjoy the restorative refrain of sunshine
when you forget pain and mistakes in darker compartments
my weaknesses bleeding and exposed
to most the process may seem foolish or self-destructive
but i would have it no other way
there is beauty and peace in this blessed tension
and for that
there is much reason to celebrate

*because His PAST presence is PRESENT enough for our FUTURE

sometimes being a student of life ain't easy

i've been victimized
a victim of my own demise
propositioned to slumber and toil in lies
asked to quietly fall in line
coerced to wear the sheep's disguise
been desecrated in mind and soul
torched inevitably by the truth's toll
victimized
and i long to be whole

freewrite or restrictedwrite?

why do i struggle to write?
trying to stretch the visionary dreamscapes into revelation
its self inflicted pen pressure
the scorching desklamp heat drying my inkwell into desert
the red-eyed chill of an all night misadventure
gazing through blurred frame with misaligned aperture
maybe its the no slip grip that keeps my strokes slurred
or the fine tip ball point i find elegance with
puncturing each rip in the lip of the page
the blank page
where is it?
in the afterthought of an inks drip?
the tip of starshine through my temporary dark age
i feel the weight bubbling beneath the poet's rage
wielding linethroughs and erasures like an english wielding sage
the pursuit and wander of my words are illegible
my smeared consciousness is negligible
why do i struggle to write?
maybe because i scribe in tension
while the catch was already dancing in the margins of my phrase

the inch. *inspired by v for vendetta.

theres this inch
it exists inside all of us
within this humble space we are free
its the hallowed safety
the sacred ground
the center in the margins
its home
the authenticity that is untainted by the poison around us
the truth left intact amidst all the lies
where different isn't dangerous
where apologies are unnecessary

we must not relent or surrender it
we must never lose it or give it away
we must never let them take it from us
when time runs its inevitability
every inch of us will perish
but one
an inch
it is small
and it is fragile
and it is the only thing in the world worth having

my first time here. freewrite...

the child is raised in the shadow of innocence looming over her misguided youth. misdirection. the real infection is the lack of seeds that never get sown, let alone penetrate the cold concrete. now that's a global disaster. an epidemic both social and systemic. she sets off on her daily trek to get her mind fed and it always feels like the sun had just set. tattered dance shoes with the broken soles gliding feverishly across the unpaved road. broken soles passed down by her ate to match her outdated hand me down uniform. she'll grow into it, right? but will she ever grow into intellectualism or a handful of western dreams? will she ever fix her broken soul(es)? or teach her unborn children to get their mind fed? too premature to say. they say she waits for revolution to come. a silent but fierce storm brewing in the skies. if you close your eyes on the clearest day, you can hear it coming. pulsating. a silent celebration aching to reveal. before she reaches her destination, she takes a moment to acknowledge the shine. closes her eyes and raises them to kiss the sun. "one more day," she says. "one more day."