i have not killed the quirky girl billowing in me
or the policeman inside my head

oh what's a girl gotta do get slavoj ziz
to write her letters?

 i have been a boy forever
my long pants pulled up above my knees
the flap of the shirt
flopped over the belly
a winking boy

a hi fi vid
important people
but the fucking bathroom
is hanging out in the background
the toilet winking

i keep my boiling, particled shit
in a swirling bowl

i'm still peter pan

but i'm not i'm not i'm not

i lean on dads
fill up on dads

and i put up a sausage machine
that grinds out some half
limping three year old
with a bowl cut and a rubbed up stick
curling up around a pole
begging for nothing
but seeming to beg

santa sancta sanctified
peter pan humping the playgrounds ropes

oh i made this!

REMAKING COMMUNAL LIFE, 

REVIVING THE JOY OF LIVING, 

DECOLONIZING THE WORLD

it's a zine. have a look. i made it!
copy print distro freely.
maybe take some to quimby's?
or any/everywhere that needs some decolonizin (um like most places)

let's see, otherwise,
today i dove into a pile of blackberry brush
lopped chopped whacked
scratched fell over jumped up and down.
thick thick foamy stems.
willows lying along the ground like creepers.
wild roses suffocating.
(which is a good general question--how do you tell which ones are thriving and which suffering?
um, invasives? real, xenophobic, historically in/accurate, relative, all of the above?
which are the legacy trees? how do we release them?
how to clear the doug firs, how to thin, how to remove the blackberries
holding the general love of all creatures
sustenance for all
the land
including us)

well, it's a rainy day of the wolf creek queer forestry camp
gray and.
i surprise myself continually with my strength and with my exhaustion, when it's too much and when i can take/do so much more.
i think i can walk for a very long time.
anyway,
people are scattered in little crews, clearing out around big trees in the beltane meadow, growing the meadow. the meadows here have shrunk even in the past few years, have missed the burning that used to be their tending. other folks working on blackberries by the garden house, others tending the hearth and recovering from poison oak, others felling trees and wielding chainsaws and gathering firewood.

it was a quick jump back into this world from being up at goatland this past week. slow, timeful-timeless days that flew by--i remembered the good of having one thing to do in a day, like fixing the waterline or playing with baby goats or a tattoo. reading a book. things feel good as day-long projects. and it's good, maybe lots of things like this in my life, that fixing the waterline means drinking a glass of water. fixing the chicken coop means roosters from the neighbor and then chicken for dinner. building a cold frame means planting seeds means greens for breakfast in a few weeks. making saurkraut today means eating it in a little while. the milk crate in the creek means keeping food colder longer, milk that lasts an extra day for coffee. when i dig that big hole i can poop in it.
i like this, this immediacy that's also learning and figuring out and trying and getting frustrated and playing and singing songs and hiking in the woods, using power tools, work drag, work that's for me.

what's the news?
two of our roosters escaped, gone feral, may be recovered.
the spirit is strong and it's all happening and it's just starting too and maybe everything in the world will collapse before i'm real comfortable with a chainsaw and we're off the grid or maybe not, right?