A Poem In Protest

this bruising face
of a poem
did not want to be born
into the 20th century

truth be told
I would rather be describing
the red-winged flower
of my lover's embrace

I would rather be searching
for my father
and his missing syllables
in a haiku

but I am vomiting
this splintering song of a poem
trapped like a tangled scream
in my throat
split open and raw in the chest

this is a poem standing in protest
among arrogant stallions
riding into yet another century
loaded guns
tomahawk missile in the air

this is a poem bearing witness
to U.S sanctioned bullets
entering the bodies
of 13-year old boys
throwing stones at military tanks
in occupied territories

this is a poem in protest
of giant metal-mouthed bulldozers
crumbling homes, crushing skulls

this is a poem documenting
unlawful incarcerations
secret deportations
the fostering of a hooked-on-fear TV nation

this is a poem in protest
of first world bullies who ambush
with ammunition bombshells fighter jets
rhetoric of terror to terrorize

this is s poem born of necessity
an imperative response
to a plague -VIOLENCE, VIOLENCE

violence will not silence this poem
surfacing like a prayer

surfacing like corpses
in rivers and deserts

we have been here before

Vietnam,The Philippines
Nicaragua, Panamá
El Salvador, Afghanistan

body bags for the few
mass graves for the many

the ghosts of an unnamed are gathering
like sandstorm in this poem

this is a poem in protest
in non-cooperation
with the puppeteers of war
in protest of pandemic propaganda
in protest of pipelines over people
in protest of patriotism that ignores
the growing pile of bodies
men women children
whose stories will not be televised

this is a poem in protest
of the muted body counts
the glamorized military billboards
the testosterone-driven Hummer invasion
the camouflage-and-flag fashion sensation

this is a poem in protest
of pep rallies for battle

just for the record
war is not a football game
this is not a cowboy movie
Iraq is not a video game

this is s poem standing in protest

it is true
the war machine
is a well-armed giant
a dinosaur of power

and I am only a woman
with a poem in her hand

but this poem
void of exploding grenades
and bright-colored cluster bombs
will not relinquish its logic
its pissed-off stance
its memory

it will be a petition of opposition
stapled to the scripted transcript
of conquest

it will be a fist
full of flowers
held up to the sky
in defiance of death and destruction

a litany of blood prints
tagged
on the walls
of an empire

this is a poem in protest
joining the international chorus of millions
a growing sea of boundless voices
so great and so widespread

that all the weapons
of mass destruction
and all the warlords
of the world

cannot silence
or bomb us away

New Project

I've recently began doing tracing stencils. My plan is to spray paint over the newly-cut-out stencils on t-shirts. I figured I needed something to keep me productive this summer. Sure, I'm taking a summer course, but it's online... So I'll still have all my thoughts crammed into this small wacky & colorful space that is my brain.

Here are a few wrks of art I'm working with.

Psychopathic Prison

I'm stuck inside this prison
I cannot break the lock
I cannot squeeze throughout the bars
My passage ways are blocked

I cant't escape this horrid hell
Through the barricades; cannot see
For even though I want out bad
I'm broken like the key

In the shadows I cannot hide
For you all can clearly see
No matter how much I cover up
I am glass; you can see through me

I cannot break these bars; again
I cannot run and hide
So I guess I'll wait with this horrible fear
Keeping it locked inside

why bother?

Why bother to breath...
Really though, who gives a [fuck] in the end?

Why bother to live...
Because they wouldn't notice if I were gone.

Why bother to love...
When you will never love me; no matter [fucking] what.

The

P

A

I

N

Is {ALMOST} too much to take. So why even bother,
because even if I do survive all of this shit...


I'll never have you in the end.

A tease a minute longer

at 1:30 am
i'm missing you
in my t-shirt and the polk-a-dot panties you love
the ones you took off oh-so softly that night we played with candle wax
my lights are turned down low
in heavy breaths
i ask if you're by yourself

an index finger
tracing my skin

my finger
discovering the folds of my elbow
to my right temple
gentle
wait to crawl below

your tongue would lead the way if you were here
between my thighs
hands massaging my breasts
but i'm doing ok with your voice
whispering on the phone
as you're touching yourself too

i would love to kiss you
deep into trace
the musty smells of a hard day's work
caught between our belly buttons
pressed between the palms of our hands against the wall
legs spread apart
wrapping each other close
bite your neck
lick my lips
a tease a minute longer
we
can
come
together

my lover
spiced lust divine
do your kisses travel so quickly to my hips
and how i know you/inside me
even these thousands of miles apart

B-Side Players

Karlos Paez from B-Side Players at The Independent in San Francisco

A Friend Called Hatred

An imaginary friend called Hatred.
Hatred is my only friend.
Hatred understands me,
I understand Hatred.
I love Hatred,
and Hatred loves me.
Hatred has a friend named Pain.
I soon found comfort in Pain.
And Pain became my friend too.
I embraced Pain and Hatred and brought their souls unto mine.
Sex and Violence also came into the picture,
and through Sex and Violence I felt I became whole.
I found comfort in Sex,
Sex filled an empty whole.
I found freedom in Violence.
Violence introduced me to my inner-self
and soon I came to understand everything I hadn't known before.
So now, with Pain and Hatred, Sex and Violence,
I live with my life
and walk towards death with a new understanding of everything.
With open arms I embrace the truth of what I am.

Sean Quinlan

Jeffry

Jeffry Wayne Crane
Born January 15, 1982
Lived till September 29, 2006

I am in shock and disbelief. My heart is heavy with sadness.
My friend, Jeff was such a kind and caring person.