“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.”  Frida Kahlo

I dig new graves for my ancestors who need burying. I dig new graves for myselves who need burying. I bury the rest like a seed, aligned to your light. Rising up with you. I do. 

  Wool jacket fastened halfway up, buttons catching the light like June Bugs Drawing close, he whispers like a branch, one leaf rubbing another Home comes through in the ripples in the lake as the cool wind brings me back Summer in Razliv with the founder, the radical, the will-be revolutionary He speaks words like…

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.

Dedicated to activist, scholar, writer, and FBI’s Most Wanted, Angela Davis

Sleeping with Maduro,
Drinking Alone with Ernesto Cardenal

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.