Lots of my friends/ say they are/ Anarchists/ but they do not/ own guns/ or know how to/ properly/ insert an IV/ or clean and/ stitch a wound.
The American Dream, he’d say, and we’d both go quiet and watch the short evergreens and palms out the front window for a beat, their leaves waving a little under the swarm of midday sun. When the window filled suddenly with with a spray of water, the trees and road went liquid. Their colors blurred. Dad would gasp, Shit, Asha it’s happening again. He’d say, God’s raining only on us.
Christian Demaria’s portraits are arresting. All of his lovingly rendered scenes of small town Appalachia are excellent, but it was the portraits above all that mesmerized me. Scrolling through his Facebook page for the first time, I found myself again and again compelled to click, to take a closer look at each of the faces.
Dedicated to activist, scholar, writer, and FBI’s Most Wanted, Angela Davis
Sleeping with Maduro,
Drinking Alone with Ernesto Cardenal
We all had nicknames in the shipyard up north, not so down south. I don’t know why that is; maybe because the yards down south were so damned big and the bosses were always watching. We would never collect in groups out in the open in the southern yards, while up north we had real unions and some really tough shop stewards, so the ass-kicking went both ways…
My front garden will be full of daffodils. I will hang a black flag from the porch. You could read Kropotkin out loud to the children before bed. No matter my exhortations, they still ask for princes.
Michelle Tea redefines autobiographical fiction by paring it down to its emotional core and dressing it back up as a work of beauty that never loses sight of the balances an artist must achieve in order to both create and to survive. And the cameo appearance by Matt Dillon is just icing on the delicious cake.