Consuming Mount Everest

Oh I see it
You see it,
We both see it too,
Our constituents can see it,
But they haven’t got a care,
Let’s climb Mount Everest and get back to…
Consuming ever inch of even the deadliest,
Most subversive terrain,
Because we are Man,
There is nothing outside of our domain,
No lamb, nor dove, nor tree, nor rock, nor gene, nor womb,
Someone can always claim better use,
Then use it, use it,
Use it up,
Dry the teat from which it’s sucked,
No concern for the mare,
For consumption sees not the waste,
Just the use,
And we are here in a land we soon won’t recognize,
Our children won’t believe what unused could mean,
Or look like,
our mountains dwarfed by landfills,
And our oceans become a myth,
Consume the seas, consume the trees,
The Lorax has already left,
What’s left are us hippies,
Rallying in it’s spirit,
Hoping still
that someone will wake up,
And see that this is
all just a nightmare
With an end,
We’re all waiting for
the Hollywood twist,
That deems our
ugly, air sucking
stranger than fiction truth
just that,


Superhero: Damage Done

I still want to save the world
That is in part my privilege,
And responsibility,
And realizing in part that means
Saving the world too from me,
And my first world habits
–My waste, my want, my consumption,
I need no cape for my cause,
That would only hold me back,
Catch me up,
And add to the consumptive practices
I am in part fighting,
Flood waters may recede,
With damage done,
Yet the hard intersectional work of clean up and prevention never ends.

Suit Up!

It’s coming, the end.
And everyone sees it,
Watches it, as our planet dies,
She’s dying a slow and painful death,
And the end is teased out,
By hope of green consumption,
But it takes from the top to make this work,
So we give up,
And get another plastic cup,
A straw,
A bag,
because we are just one,

But therein lies the illusion,
That keeps us slaves
To the industries
That profit off this death,
We are one,
And one, and one, and one, and…
Adding up to make a difference,
We are no more beaches, oceans, waves of our toxic, slow degradation,
No more breaths and bites of plastic,
No more soil contaminated by Fossil fuel,
No more leaded and flammable drinking water, poisoning our bodies and minds,

We are caught in a global bystander effect,
Waiting for the Lorax to return,
Without first planting the seed,
We are waiting for a fire department in a burning house,
Not realizing we are the fire department,

It is less, to be more,
It is activism, demanding more,
It is speaking out,
It is cleaning house,
It is preserving,
It is bearing witness to the floods, the cyclones, the tsunamis, monsoons, the hurricanes, tornados, and seeing them for what they are,
Earth is not mad,
She is hemorrhaging,
And it is on us to stop it from worsening,
The house is on fire,
The house is on fire,
The house is on fire!
–suit up!


Listen to the bird song
Listen to the trees
Listen to the butterflies
Polar bear, and honey bee
Listen to the tides,
Listen to the breeze
Listen to the snow and ice,
Listen to the Earth
As she cries for her children,
As she cries for mercy
Listen intently
Listen, listen
Listen and act,
Before we are unable

Mother’s Tears

She cries,
For her children still have not learned,
If you poison the womb,
The mother is left ill,
She cries,
And tries to stop,
But she cannot,
This body is not her own now,
And she is clouded,
And so she cries,
And cannot stop,
And the people beg “please”,
At the storms,
That are raging,
And she cries,
Because she cannot stop,
Because they did as they pleased,
And burnt her body,
And poisoned her veins,
Choked her,
And drowned her in her own tears,
And the people are now under,
In awe and in fear,
Of her thunder,
They argue over the reasons,
For unexpected change in season,
And still she cries,
And quakes,
And it will only get worse,
For her defilers,
Still refuse to admit
Any mistake,
And so her tears fall on.

-September 3, 2017

​Cathartic Cry (Post Katrina relief effort)

Sunday, April 30th, 2006 

I haven’t cried yet. What does that mean? Does that mean I’m a cold-hearted bitch? Does it mean I’m numb? Why didn’t I cry there? Why didn’t I cry on the trip back? Why not in my bed at night? In my dreams?

These tears I have to cry, they’re there, they crashing inside. Flooding my heart, but these tears, they’re too damn big to cry.

One week. One week? No, five days. What are five days? Those five days, just one of them was bigger than what my life is, or will ever be. How am I back here now, how do I just step out of a van and back to my life?

I know that no matter how many days I spend with a wonderbar and a hammer I can never do it all. But yet, what is this? What am I doing here? What are papers with letters, symbols, and grades, passing, or failing, doing for me now, for anyone now? How can I drop my hand in helping to hold up the fragile pieces of someone’s life to come to this? To college , where I can bitch about wanting my meat cooked [well-done], where I can procrastinate on a laptop, and take a bus to see a famous writer speak. I can walk in a protest, I can wear my activist gear and colors, but who cares, who hears? 

Who wants to hear my story, my fragmented story of a million stories? Is that all I am to be? The messenger, the storyteller of the lives lost? Only to tell my stories to deaf ears.

Who can understand me, when I am yet to understand them? Who will listen, but my guilty heart, that tells me that knee deep in black sludge is where I belong?

In five days I saw the history of a hundred-plus years before, and to come, play before me. Now I come back and read about it in books written by “authorities,” that place everything in historical context. What about Mike and Ann? What about the anonymous faces that we pass with the sullen, haunted eyes that have seen a hundred years of this. [I am a tourist.] What about the infinite unseen, forgotten, unfound, and unrecognizable? Who will pick up their pieces; rebuild their homes (their graves), if I do not? What is my life worth here, when I am unable to resurrect and reclaim the worth of lives there? 


I miss New Orleans. Is that paradoxical? To miss ground zero? A war zone? A ghost town? The Hiroshima of my day? How do I miss a place that is missing; A place that I have never seen? To which I have no heritage, no ties. But, I miss it. I miss it like I miss the taste of air when underwater. How ironic! I feel like I’m drowning in need to return, to reclaim, to excavate my Atlantis. 


But I miss this, and how much more that has been lost, that I will never know? That money and tools, wood, and steel will never replace. Raise new levees, build new stores, and build your goddamn lush green gulf courses. But know you have made a hole-in-one into the depths of unseen catacombs.

Red and black it dangled in the tree, immobilized for six months. This life preserver, 20 feet in the air– who did it save? And deep inside the lower 9th ward who cares? I do not know you, but I feel you there, my link that will never be broken. I do not know your pain, your fear, your story. But that does not devalue it, nor you, my dear brother or sister. 


Is it possible to form a bond with the dead? That, I am sure will never break. Perhaps I have not cried because that is not my place, these are not my tears to shed. What are tears to you? Have not the waters of the Gulf been enough?


I have a purpose. You have shown me this. But it is not here, not now. I’m coming back to you New Orleans. My precious city. I will find your children, commemorate their lives, and make their burden my own. But the floods will come again. What shall be done? Is it all in vain? No. To forget and abandon is to give up on what was, what is, and what could be. Perhaps it will not always be New Orleans but, another time, another place.


But these “un-cry-able” tears will never go away, and for this I am humbled, and made human. Is this a selfish act? Maybe.