“Power can be taken, but not given. The process of the taking is empowerment in itself.”

That’s Gloria Stienem.

Darlings, The government we’re under encourages and stirs up devisions between us all, and we become too blinded by our differences(real and imaginary) to see the transformation of an attempted Democracy into a fascist regime. This is not new or particulaly clever, the lies are just less covert,lazier,dumber.

There is no attempt made at faking honesty now. Satire is more honest than any a state of the Union Address,but that is usually the case.

This is not normal. Repeat with me, love. This is not normal. We are skipping towards fascism, and I’d encourage you to stop the thinking “if the dems can blah, armpit fart noise, things will change.” There’s no ‘Left” left. It is centrist garbage,and when people say otherwise, they’re labeled as divisive. The parties are nearly the same. Are we One country, undivisible, or snarling dogs that feast on the on scraps under tables and die crushed by medical debt, blaming the party we aren’t aligned with? Have we forgotten the power should be in our hands? Did we ever believe we had it? Black men are powerless before a system created to oppress them, women have only had any Real political power since the mid-60s IF THAT,and really, we’re still nearly voiceless. Our lives are in the hands of men who have only their own best interest at heart.

Jack weinberg said “never trust anyone over thirty” and Revolution belongs to the younger. Thirty used to mean a stable income, a care, a home, a family. Thirty is just as hungry as twenty, now. Revolution belongs to those who fight the past with fresh ideas. Generation Z, I’m with you. It’s you that can wrench this country from the hands of decrepit old white men. And we, the mellenians, we’ve read the books, tuned in and dropped out and taken tear gas for the right to choose, the right to occupy public spaces and fight for the rights of all genders. We missed our childhoods and the Crash left us underemployed and forever fighting the man, and now we are an army of men and women with backs like old women from hard work and no health care. We listened to the writings of the reformers before us, because we sought them out. We wrote now revolutionary texts. We have more responsibility to changing this country because we have the anger being a generation of Lost Boys, baristas with highest education,bartender and vigilantes, forever renting and crushed by debt and witnessing the death rattle of the American dream. We support you, the ones just now 16,18, younger. Rewrite the morals, rectify the nation. Run for office. Win. It’ll be rough, but metamorphosis always is.

I am the grandchild of immigrants who were rounded up like dogs by regimes the people supported. My blood boils and remembers things my mind can’t. The blood always knows. It bubbles inside you with generational rage that the ghosts of our mass-graved dead hear from across the ocean, or rumbles in forgotten mounds all across this united country built on the white bones of the original owners.

(Can a stolen country stand on bones so long before it crumbles)

This is the country my grandparents warned would come,and I will fight division and lies with vision and unity, education and planned protest,art and love,and when the need arise, I will fight the way the time calls for. Every act of love is defiance. Every kindness is a blow to fascist control. Sometimes, actual blows are what is needed. Wait for the time for that, however. Control is stronger than fervour. The Revolution can be digital. Organization is stronger than riots.

Satire is powerful, and mind expansion is a tool to mental freedom. Never let them tell you what to think,or how. There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception, belive that.

One nation, indivisible. Call whatever gods you want, that’s your choice. Mostly, hail yourself.

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everything is endless

I think I need to take you to highway 1. Come for the trees, stay for the living moments beween the leaves and the sunlight.  You’ve told me you don’t see the way that I do, but I do believe you can. You can smell me inside your hear,clear as if I were next to you, what else can you do you haven’t touched on yet?
I was unlocked by the wind whispering old words in trees, and I suspect your heart is in every wave in the ocean, and you can walk around this blue green rock and never be alone because of that connection.  I’ll take you to talk to the ocean. 

Then, Talk less, because I’ll take you to where I see “god”. I don’t believe the gods are ours, I don’t think they’re a power to “envoke”, but the endless voices of  now and then and never,emboidied in ways we’ll recognise: Enegy and spirits older that time showing up when they’re needed most.

Everywhere on this known earth has gods on every bit of land. I like to think each culture that came though our own new Colossus carried in charms and pots and lace the gods exiled with them in the name of “progress”.
(A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles)
Personally,  have a suspision a few made it out to this  Currently -united state’s golden side in 1959 en masse whisperin’in ears of burning blind, hysterical minds the thoughts we needed in the ryrthm of the times, Anthems and chants to start revolutions,  I suspect there were as many gods in black leather jackest and black Ray bans, aiding the Party of Self Defense againts the hate-twisted words of an old book made legislation by men with no mind to what god(s) really meant.
Whenever a prophet is murdered in his own country, A journalist marytered for reporting on human rights violations, there they are in the midst.
I suspect gods stood in tienemen square, suspect they burned with arms wrapped around monks who sent the odor of commitment and sacrifice to the sky.
God met me out there in the woods one time and I wonder if he hung around. He wasn’t a solid thing but raining light voice and he opened up all my eyes until I saw for endless days and only seconds.
Don’t figure They’re the kind of thing that stays in one place very long, or  stays one thing very long. The last time I saw Them, they were crossing the street and the middle of Santa Cruz, walking a pitbull. Another time, they were a little girl who know me from the last time she was a little girl. I didn’t know her at all. 
I do not know that there are gods, my darling. I do know my own belifes, my own life. I suspect there exixst more in the Spaces between that we have words for. 
 There is no hyperbole to what I am about to say.
I was possibly 12, angry, walkman,pants with a velvet dragon on them. I believed in nothing, maybe less.
I saw a man pass me  on my left. I look in his face and saw eyes like worlds on worlds, blue hollow worlds,and as he passes, I watched him walk away, and then he was gone.
Gods or no, there’s more that we can put names to.
 Find a new word for god. demystify the mysteries through communication.
listen to yourself.
I know nothing.
So do you.

Older names

In one of the beginnings of a world and time that may or may not be this one, something saw fit to assemble me, and I can only guess (given the nature of the universe) a few others with an odd collection of extra bones, memories not our own, and eyes that see beyond the world of most.

Someone poured the wind inside me instead of breath and give me a heart deeper than the sea, and broken as a shipwreck.

If woman was made from Adam’s ribs then I am no woman and am made from the backbone of some other-gendered thing. While I have no doubt I have a soul, I have a deep and enduring suspicion that half of it is wandering around without me like the shadow of Peter Pan, while pieces of other Souls leave their memories of screen doors and architecture and faces I’ve never seen, inside my head.

At night I dream of crows and strangers ask me the directions to a place they assume I know and I’ve dreamed the dreams enough to be afraid to ask myself why I have the answers and know the way.

There’s no guide book for explaining the sensation of feeling spread out across places and times. I’m beginning to wonder if there are no gods anymore because perhaps they spread their souls out among the people with no explanation. No matter what mythology you choose, the gods never think too carefully about the consequences, do they.

Whatever made me gave me a heart that is spread out across every city in every corner of the world, strung together by a silver cord I wrap around around around as I struggle to collect its pieces in alleyways and cityscapes and in the eyes of those who shine out fluorescent-like when everyone else’s seems to be lit by Edison bulbs.

When I was younger I used to say my head was too full, and a glow would start in my chest and explode through the top of my head and I swore that I would break apart, and often wished I would. I saw things at night that only children’s hearts know the real names for; old things that are the antique reason all humans fear the dark. Eventually I learned to pretend I didn’t see them.

When I was younger I knew I held the winds inside me, and maybe something else that made my mother believe the devil could be pulled out of me by men who likely slept at night never seeing anything but the back of their own eyelids. There is no devil so far as I can see,but In my experience, Pious men hold the devil inside them far more often than not.

At the age I am now (younger than my tongue, but older than my teeth) I believe in everything and nothing. I see and watch everything and pretend that I don’t. (I am not an oddity To be collected)

Maybe I stand with one foot in this world and part of the other somewhere else. I have few answers which is still more than I had and I will never run out of questions. I know this,

We are more than we have been told and less alone than we have been led to believe, and one doesn’t have to stare into the abyss in order for it to turn it’s gaze your way.

I am a broke-down temple with no gods to speak of, but I (like you) am infinite.