Contributors * more photos to appear soon

Contributors * more photos to appear soon
Christy Namee Eriksen, kim thompson, Jon Schill

Friday, July 9, 2010

My Son Runs in Riots

Well, another f'd up moment in american history.  My heart and grit teeth go out to the family of Oscar Grant, another victim of police brutality and the legal system.  More info:  

for Oscar Grant & other warriors

I don’t use playpens,
my son runs in riots.

He took his first steps towards burning buildings
and he carried a molotov cocktail in his right,
draggin his blankie in the left gripped tight,

half brushed cotton, half tear-stained satin,
he lets the tail gather the dirt and screams of the street,
he can’t sleep without it.

When I sing lullabyes
we are often running
and he keeps up cause
he loves the sound of twinkle twinkle
little star
to fire alarms.
He think ashes are diamonds in the sky.

I breast-fed for a year,
as recommended,
and weaned him to household chemicals.
We are only as strong as the bomb we mix
and my son’s lungs glisten.

I don’t want another language to be lost
so I whisper the traditions of tamed lions
I grip his wrist
for his attention
I purr the words
how we were told we could not be wild
and i clench his shoulders
and i hold him
and I told him
they said we were not real lions
they said they were not real gate keepers
they said the cage would not come between us
they said this was justice
and i swore for whatever mother this earth was supposed to be and i said,
the truth. is.
we are free.

Unlike me,
he didn’t pause at the thought.
My son stood up
sucked on a switchblade and
took off.

He met men with gray hearts and silver badges
and he has
bullets in his back,
he has
bullets in his front,
he has 56 baton blows, six kicks in his ribs and

when you watch the video
it’s tough to tell whose son it is.

all my children cry tear gas.

Thursday, July 8, 2010


i am tired of fighting
everyday to keep myself alive
can i go a day without picking up
my weapons of war
wreaths of victory fill the world arena
but who wins when no one can celebrate
and why celebrate victories laced with crimson life?

i am tired of struggling
everyday to keep myself sane
can i go a day without picking up
my pieces of mind
particles scattered to the wind
but what can grow when the land is poisoned
and why does poisoned water satiate ephemeral needs?

i am tired of battling
everyday to keep myself happy
can i go a day without picking up
my pillow stained of tears
endless streams cascade down an already dismal face
but when will these rivulets not burn my face as they run
and why do i keep drying these volcanos when they will just explode?

i am tired of striving
everyday to keep myself going
can i go a day without picking up
my body weary of wear and tear
scars rendered irrevocable with a single word or glance
but how soon will this endless ennui eradicate my existence
and why does my body have the strength to get up?

i am tired of warring
everyday to keep myself optimistic
can i go a day without picking up
my soul of faith
tired eyes open but apathetic, closed but restless
but where can i look and find my heart
and why do i never recover?

i can't be a gladiator anymore

Venetian Blind Geisha

The mattress built for two with the valley in the middle
squeezes us together--just two pieces of meat in a cloth bun,
the girl who sleeps in moments meets the boy who knows better
but ignores it, ignores her except when she sleeps;
she's only pretty with her eyes closed.

During daylight, she dresses in layers against
the Minnesota cold stares and niceness--
keeps her heart like her eyes, closed
nose filled with icicles blocks out the air
and errant questions in a work setting--
sticks to cut and dry numbers for warmth.
The office babe only when she's blinking,
she looks surprised by it.

She sleeps past alarms and leftover lovers,
pretends to be asleep, meek, and satisfied
at thirty long enough to peek at where she's going next,
walking with her eyes closed.


I have secrets
or perhaps it's just the one?

A girl scout selling out, she ran away, turned back, got lost again. Scouts honor, she'll behave she said; didn't try, it's just what she does. Swim in expectations, earning badges for 5 dollars on the sly.

But there is not one easy way out...

비밀들 너무 많아~

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


i saw myself
saw us both
and three

not knowing i knew
who and what they were

that she was me
and she was her
and she was the third

yesterday i saw myself

the awkward silence of sipping

most days i see us here

on the subway
on the bus
on the streets
in the shops
waiting for the light to change

what could have
what i cant help but at times think:
should have


i see us here

in coffeeshops
unobserved by others
but taken in by me

... yesterday
each day is same
i see us here
never two but three

visible specter speaking
words we can only

lost and found
found and lost
its all the discovering that happens
somewhere inbetween the middles...

in the stolen outside observations

each day
i see us both
hand in hand
crying out her name
begging for ice cream
skipping just ahead

yesterday i saw me
yesterday i saw her
yesterday i saw the third

yesterday i rose up
turned on the podcast
walked outside

and thought of us three still sitting up there
how i share more in common with that stranger me
than with most dear friends...

nervous daughter
chiding mother
and their sentences always broke by
lack of chatter

for five minutes
i was not alone
and though she did not know it
nor was she

kim thompson. thursday 8 july 13.56 seoul, s. korea