Dim light, cold night. Another trash day done. Grey, but no rain. I have nothing to do with myself but what i please. please v. 1 cause to feel happy or satisfied [intrans.] give satisfaction [as adj.] satisfy aesthetically 2 take only one’s own wishes into consideration in deciding how to act or proceed [intrans.] wish or desire to do something. In case of an earthquake, do not want to be on the bus. But everything in the world is falling apart, not just AC Transit. Gas at $4.09/gallon. The bus’s interior lights flicker. I’ve already seen two ambulances on the boulevard. You look amazing from here, San Francisco. Another 3.2 in San Leandro: this is why i keep my water not on the desk with my computer but on a separate, lower side table.
I dig feeling safe at home as much as anybody but personalized preprogrammed realities on Tivo and subwoofers so powerful they drown out the helicopters buzzing above are more frightening than any revolution. “Walgreens is going the way of Target and Walmart, don’t you think? They’ve got fruits and vegetables, a frozen section now.” And i want to know why i can’t feel the roof of my mouth, the tip of my tongue, the sweet-bitter fruits of my labor.
I had planned to go to a reading on the implications of the Occupation but decide at the last minute that it’s more important to go occupy than to theorize around occupying. While humans are making meaning, wasps detect explosives. All around, politics are happening; gas in the air alters everything. Change was the idea, wasn’t it?
Tryptophan from the turkey does its thing in my bloodstream. People bring nice wine. Someone’s got to drink it.
In this family you don’t talk about what you want.
People are donating – food, fliers, posters, books, art supplies, medical supplies. “The more police attack, the more people come.” Speaking of Cairo: the tear gas they’re serving alongside with Molotov cocktails is not normal teargas: it’s CS teargas, and it’s manufactured in Pennsylvania.
A conversation in Danish walks by. Nothing startles me anymore.
By the time i gravitate to the mud muck dance party lot at 19th and Telegraph, it’s pouring and i’ve missed my friends. For a minute i am drawn in to the tilt-a-world dark and rain, where the dancers are getting down in yellow slickers and camo medic bags, the cops no direct threat with arms folded and hands cradling coffee, then go to the bar.
“What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones,” Poe says, in Hejinian’s words. What if what we term a short poem is, in fact, merely a segment of a long one? With all the action at 14th and Broadway, it seems like poor form to duck into side street restaurant for vegetarian pho, steaming seasoned broth with great chunks of tofu. Soy was traditionally a condiment, not a replacement for protein staples. “The police have to stop, but they haven’t.”
“Since 1988, at least 17,856 people have died trying to cross into Europe.”
– GOOD News, 3 December 2011
When i love America, America loves me back, and i am not a tramp, but a woman with a camp. A chased woman, overseer of a mechanism of eggs, holding something close, protecting it always very tightly.
The dream of a twenty-four hour BART. He didn’t think i was talking to him so i say it again. “Love and music are both complicated. Like time signatures.” He’s such a good conversationalist/i wonder if this friendship is a fiction.
Modes, not lines, of thought prove feeling rather than concretize what is felt. If i don’t really care about “concrete” images it’s because usually they feel like stretch away from immediate ferocious living of this life. The difficulty is always, has always been, will always be in aligning the process with the intention: saying what is to be said. Not only choosing what to say but how to say it, really having to go somewhere, even if in fragments.
My appetite makes a brief appearance, a gastro-emotional upwelling that vanishes and leaves me shaking, jittery, clumsily clutching the trash can i am rolling up from the sidewalk to the backyard.
Protest safety protocol dictates: write the National Lawyers’ Guild number on your arm in permanent marker, stick with your affinity group, carry your cell phone and asthma inhaler. There’s nothing wrong with getting arrested, but you don’t have to get arrested if you don’t want to.
“KEEP MARCHING!” a megaphone booms. “Share the billions with the millions!” In the march to the port a man with a blind person’s cane tells me my sign (POETRY IS IN THE STREETS) is great. Bare feet trample grass en masse at march’s end. We could be here in the square or elsewhere; i feel like he was just touching me because i was there. It could have been anyone and it just happened to be me. It could have been anywhere and it just happened to be here. It could be anything and it just happens to be this occupation.
“Banks got bailed out, we got sold out!” “Homes, not jails! Schools, not jails!” Repetition is key to picking up language. “In four dimensions i exist in all the places i have ever been, including this chair at multiple times.”
The hikers who were imprisoned for hiking along the border in Iran are speaking. Times revolutionary pass for days. We are, somebody said last night, “fighting for our lives.” We stay through the end of the General Assembly to dance to Thriller and see if Quan enforces the ten o’clock curfew. I might be a better citizen if—