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scrolling twitter

looking for a muse,

something that doesn’t

douse me with guilt

or shame

or dread

something hopeful.

something beautiful.

something new.

instead

crammed

inside

a tiny video screen

is a dilapidated

frame of a building

the bbc is calling a school.

young brown children

in headscarves

hungry for education

are taught

by a smiling blind

nine year old boy.

another conflict

in an arid

chunk of the map:

good guys and bad guys—

the houthis:

an islamist political and armed movement

that emerged from sa'dah in northern yemen

the other side:

saudi isreal america

the yemeni civil war may refer to several historical events

which have taken place in yemen:

alwaziri coup, february – march 1948

yemeni–adenese clan violence, 1956–60

north yemen civil war, 1962–70

aden emergency, 1963–67

north yemen-south yemen border conflict of 1972

yemenite war of 1972

ndf rebellion, 1978–82

yemenite war of 1979

south yemen civil war, january 13–25, 1986

yemeni civil war (1994)

al-qaeda insurgency in yemen, 1998–2014

houthi insurgency in yemen, 2004–15

south yemen insurgency, 2009–15

yemeni crisis (2011–present)

yemeni revolution, 2011–12

yemeni civil war (2014–present), ongoing

saudi arabian-led intervention in yemen, ongoing

lahij insurgency, march 27 – august 4, 2015

aden unrest (2015–present), ongoing

hadramaut insurgency, april 26, 2016 – present

world sense

can be disambiguated

by examining the context:

but how can we be expected to

know this much?

care this much?

this poem

does nothing.

neither will the one

for myanmar.

 

bear witness

i forget
how
to do
this.

the weight of indignation
heavy like a [where do similes go?]
easy cliches
like the news
and other garbage they try
to sell us.

scrolling, sloth, sins
lost in thought
about what
must be inherited and not attained;
culture, power, justice
being born
here not there
white not black
male not female

inheritances are never taxed,
wealth weaponised
by drunken children
wielding privilege and victimhood

fires. volcanos. war.
protests. impeachment. elections.
winners. losers. snubs.

everyday the same.
everyday different.

whilst running in the park
I witnessed:

a pigeon flapping its wings
transporting a twig into a tree

a father and daughter
flying a kite
within reach,
but far away enough
to threaten space

a newly married couple
draped in an entourage
laughing
sand between their bare feet.

everyday the same.
everyday different.

the world will bury us
the only levity
found by bearing witness

the only thing we need to teach
the children is how to
catch a breath beneath another shovel load. 

Dropping

You take the picture, on the bridge, on that spot with your family with all the other people taking pictures with their families on the bridge, in that spot, because you want to stop that moment in time and shout that you are alive and happy and in that spot on that bridge with all those people who are happy and alive and you want to stop that moment and freeze it and hold it even for a second and cherish it.


You will save it and share it and look at it several times later in the day and marvel at how bright the blues are and how wide the smiles are and how real the moment looks, frozen, even now hours later. Your friends will like it and you will like that they like it because their liking it proves that it was a valuable and precious moment, but you knew that already.


You actually don’t need their likes, although the likes feel validating; you don’t even really need the photo, although it feels good to spend time with it later in the day, hours after it is taken, all you really need is that moment, the second that you are all standing their on the bridge, in that spot with your family frozen, posing waiting to acknowledge the beauty of the single second right before you push the tiny white button on your phone.


You are alive and together and happy. The photograph is just a cheap attempt at capturing these emotions- in pixels and time and likes.


…


We were headed to the Marin Headlands today with the kids, so I started to educate Kaia on the purpose of the bunkers. I told her a bit about WWII and the Japanese. We spoke about the potential attack. Their aggression in the Pacific and the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. We talked a bit about the fear that must have over taken San Francisco and the construction of fortress we were about to visit. The conversation quickly moved on to the end of the war and the dropping of the two nuclear bombs in Japan. She looked horrified that the country she has recently taken so much pride in, the very one she felt was the victim just minutes before was now responsible for massive civilian deaths and the burning of two entire cities. We walked on in silence through a tunnel, until she finally said, “There has to be better ways to solve conflict than wars.” You would think. I thought. You would think.


…


On the way back to the car we passed through a tunnel and on the wall there was some graffiti that said, “Drop Acid.” Of course she asked what it meant. Here is a recap of my answer:


Well back in the 1960’s San Francisco was famous for being the home for people who didn’t fit in anywhere else. There was a group of people called hippies. You know the people with long hair and tie-dye shirts, anyway, people from all over the country came to San Francisco to be themselves and to be free. They did different kinds of drugs and one was called acid. It changed their brains and made them think in different ways. They could smell colors and see and think about things that a normal brain simply could not do.


“That sounds scary to mess with your brain so you feel crazy.”


Well it wasn’t always crazy. Sometimes it allowed them to create art that no one had ever thought of, or to create music that was new and fresh. Take The Beatles for example- their entire sound and style changed after doing this drug.


Silence. “So you drop it? What does that mean?”


It just means that you take it, but you don’t have to worry about that now. Just be thankful that San Francisco is a place for freaks and weirdos and people seeking to be free. It’s where daddy lived and grew up and so you will always have a connection to this area. It is your home too.

Compaq and a Piece of String

Every once in a while you read a piece of journalism that makes you want to re-read it before it is finished. These types of Gonzo-inspired prose are seldom filled with facts, and you will seldom read them in the New York Times. Some would argue that these opinion filled exercises in snide, cutting edge, in-your-face prose are not journalism at all, but I would say that it is precisely this type of tidy, clever writing that may be the bitch slap most people need to wake them from their stupor.

Perhaps we are too far numb to realize what is happening in the world. Oil spills, death of phytoplankton, indefinite wars all over the globe in the name of fighting evil-doers, don’t seem to be doing it these days.

Enter Matt Taibbi and Mark Morford. Two of the finest journalist writing today. I could have easily Tweeted this article or shared it on Facebook. I could have simply cut and paste the article in full, and let you read it for your self, but I wanted to dissect it and carve out my favorite lines. Enjoy:

*All italicized sections actually caused me to pump my fists in the air and cheer.

You think the Taliban has this kind of time? The brainpower? We have cool iPads, MIT geniuses and supercomputers the size of France. They have a single, filthy 2001 Compaq Presario and some string. I mean, please.

It is this: Despite all our dazzling ultramodern technology, despite all those infrared goggles and laser-guided everything, despite 1,000 advancements in weaponry and body armor, stratagems and 3D mapping, war remains the most despicable, thoroughly miserable human endeavor mankind has yet invented, or will ever invent in this or any lifetime, and that includes "Jersey Shore," Microsoft Windows and Mel Gibson.

Let these 92,000 documents eliminate all doubt: war is our basest, most vile creation. Has been for 10,000 years. Always will be.

It goes on for days, the same tone, in the same way, snippet after snippet, scene after scene, horror after horror. It's like reaching into a giant basket of razor wire and shards of glass, trying to find the bottom that doesn't exist.

Whereas, the real thing is, well, nothing but endlessly ugly, sad, tedious, nauseating, deadening, exhausting, like peeling off a scab that never ends, like rubbing a grain of sand into your eye that only gets deeper and more painful, like driving down the world's longest desert highway stretching off far into the distance, potholed with bombs and dead bodies, war crimes and shrapnel, oil slicks and weapons contracts, all oversprinkled with a trillion American dollars raining down like fine green confetti.

From what I can tell from the WikiLeaks scandal, here is what it does not mean: It does not mean war is some sort of rugged Herculean manly uberpatriotic exercise in glorious freedom, justice, truth, that just might also, whoops, get a little bloody. It does not quite mean a noble force for good and democracy. It might have meant that once, long ago, for a shining moment, maybe, on the back of a coin somewhere. It hasn't meant anything near that for 1,000 years. Capitalism saw to that.

Because evil is more like Dick Cheney's tiny sneer, the religious nutball's weakest synapse, the wheezing death of the soul.

War is similar. It is no grand, melodramatic spectacle, no sepia-toned Spielberg movie narrated by Tom Hanks, no epic "Lord of the Rings" battle royale between ogres and kings. It's just page after page, bomb after bomb, report after report, endlessly and forever, numbing to the core, until history chokes it all down with a dry heave and an exhausted sigh.

I would give my left arm to be able to write with such clarity and wit. Kudos to you Mr. Morford you left me speechless. I just ordered his book.

Empty of Color

I am on an airplane and everyone, including my daughter is asleep, and this means I can watch movies. I have committed myself to almost five hours of Clint Eastwood’s sorrow filled genius. I am bathed in various shades of defused grays, a void empty of color, charged with emotion; I am glued to the tiny screen in front of me.

I have decided to watch Letters from Iwo Jima followed by Flags of Our Fathers. I know nothing of this island, this story, this battle, this sadness accept for this photograph.


The films themselves are brilliant. The first, Letter from Iwo Jima, portrays the Battle of Iwo Jima from the perspective of the Japanese soldiers and is a companion piece to Eastwood's Flags of Our Fathers, which depicts the same battle from the American viewpoint. You can read more about each film on the wikipedia pages, but I highly recommend you carve out five hours one night and watch them together. I cannot say which I would recommend seeing first, but they should be viewed tandem.

I couldn't help but sit in the darkness contemplating the needless, pathetic human violence we so often honor. Rethinking words like glory, honor, freedom, and bravery. How long will we allow our young men to be manipulated by the few men in power who long to spill so much unnecessary blood?

Despite Eastwood’s poignant and intertwining stories, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous it all seems. This propaganda wrapped in dogma that we mistake for truth. These constant wars for freedom and country and god. All sides blinded by self-righteous nationalism. What is it about our countries that so many men feel the need to kill and die for them? How long till they see that they are mere pawns in a game they were never meant to play? How ling before we see the other soldier as the friend and the governments as enemies?

The story of Ira Hayes is one of the saddest things I have ever heard. I encourage you to read the wikipedi page here.


I leave you with a few clips. Do yourself a favor and watch these two films. They will stay with you for some time.