Laura Cooper

Permaculter Bike Tour, Portland, OR

2009-08-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

On August 5, 2009, a group of twenty some bicyclist headed out for a permaculture tour of southeast Portland, OR. From natives to strangers, we had one very important thing in common, a desire to make personal changes in our life style, for the benefit of our own health and/or the health of this planet.

As a recent transplant to to Portland from Chicago, it was amazing to see the fast tract to sustainability that Portland is on and ready for more. And because I am new to this community, I can't help but compare it to from whence I came. Chicago is really trying to be green and has a reputation of being so, but the difference between Chicago and Portland is that in Chicago it has been a very top-down type of transition with Mayor Daley declaring that Chicago would become "the greenest city in America" and has made this goal a central part of how the city is being planned, developed and run. Most Chicagoans stand on the sideline, cheering on the new "green" skyscraper and brag about all the bike lanes, feeling that their job is done because they are tax payers. But what Chicago has wrong is that sustainability is a lifestyle choice, not a city plan. As demonstrated by the everyday people who welcomed a large group of strangers into their homes and brains in order to green the city themselves with their neighbors and friends, through education and community. What I walked away with is a sense that the concerned citizens of Portland are seriously taking the matter into their own hands, growing sustainable food supplies, harvesting rain water, and building an open community instead of leaving it up to the bureaucrats to decide, or waiting for the city council to vote for it. Leaving it up to our elected officials is not going to cut it if we are truly going to make sustainability work for us as individuals. By making the greening or Portland a small community effort, not only are we moving much faster, but we can also foster that sense of community, meet and share with our neighbors, making our neighborhoods safer and a fun place to live.

I truly recommend anyone who is interested in being green or sustainable to look into the ideals and philosophy behind the freedom and independence of permaculture . There are many ready and willing to share their skills and ideas, whether you are growing a few things in pots for now, life myself, or are already a seasoned gardener. The idea of small communities and neighbors taking control of their own impact on the earth will be so much more effective than the mayor having the parks department plant a few trees. As Randy White, CEO of brightneighbor.com, said so eloquently throughout the tour, "You want to change the world? Change your world."

The Death of Money

2009-08-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

I.

Desmond Marcus was in his office when money died, years of stretched out indiscriminate product and prevention ware. He was a government arms dealer slash stock man who had done what he considered pretty well for himself and then, not so all of a suddenly, it was gone. All those glowing screens and testimonials that read sometimes unnameable fortunes on off shore bank buddies and they call up to say, "Hey, well, sorry. The dollar's fucked. Oh, and say hello to your wife for me."

It took him a while to compile a new list of assets. Those not among the money he for so long had nurtured and raped in the safety of an old code, books and files that once seemed so real were gone. Numbers on a page. Desmond was now trying to think of those tangible things in his life that he acquired. He still had those if not the bank sheets. And, yes, his wife was on that list of valuables, he would make sure to send the hello. Mrs. Marcus was up there in value with the wedding china and those odd little eggs she displayed in mirrored cases in the guests' bedroom. Anyways, his mind was now trailing off, not sure what the next step would be.

He asked himself: If my money isn't worth anything, do i still own my things that i paid for with the said money? How the fuck are you suppose to pay the electric bill without routing numbers? Would he too become a Publicgoodworks member and use tokens and live on rations like all the mutts in the urban sprawl across America? If money can collapse can everything else just follow?

He then lay back in his chair, leathery recline into a closed eyed sigh, high up in a skyscraper in his New York City office, putting his hands to rest on his chest and there he cried.

II.

Nina Leary was in her backyard garden when she heard the news that money died. Her neighbor Rebbecca came jogging over to tell her with a lighthearted smile, dog on her heels. It was gray but they were both tanned from another summer spent outside, it was a picturesque Pacific Northwest haze of purplish-blue clinging to the not so distant mountains to the east.

"Hey, kiddo." Rebbecca says. "Did you hear? Money's dead! Well, government money, at least. The dollar officially collapsed. You coming over for dinner tonight?"

Nina Leary tossed Rebbecca a potato that she had just dug up, took off her gloves, took a deep breath, looked around at the cloudy, fertile, wet sky and ground and said, "Only if you're cooking, bitch."

They smile at each other, trying to savor the moment, take in the fresh air. Realizing how happy and lucky they were to be so far away from that fiat hell that swept through most of the nation in the last five or so years. Nina went back to work in order to distract herself, and Rebbecca heading home, no goodbyes necessary. It was sometimes hard to be so happy when the rest of the world fell apart, Nina thought to herself, small shovel in hand. It drove her to work harder, dig deeper, learn more and share more. Her produce was the cheapest at the farmers' market and she was known for giving it away to children and older folks who fidgeted with counting their coins or own product to trade, the look of scarcity in their eyes. It was hard to feel like she was so content in these moment, far out from the chaos and rioting that was sure to take place once everyone realized the paper in their wallets were just that, paper. And their bank accounts cleared, like retirement funds never existed, like social security was now an old temporary fix, as it was intended to be in the first place. And here she was, harvesting more pounds of potatoes she thought possible in such a small space, a husband back at her cozy farm house making music with her son as a math project, and a friend who would be cooking them all a wonderful dinner where she was sure they would laugh and talk and it will be just like any other day for us. Nina shed a tear for those who would not have a day like hers. The spinach looks like it needs some watering.

III.

Moses Bentley had been homeless for eighteen years until the dollar died. He was outside Chicago somewhere, near Brother Rice High School where he liked to go to watch the basketball games as a long-term, gun-ho, hometown fan. He liked to sit among the Dr. Lawyer parents of students in the game and give them a tip or two about their boy's weak left shoulder. It shows in the defense. The parents didn't treat him like he was homeless in the stands. He'd bring popcorn to share. He always wore a suit jacket.

Moses was just three or four blocks away from a hard hitting home game at Brother Rice, ready to get back on a bus to go back to the city where he'd been sleeping lately. He'd claimed a port-a-potty that was never used at an abandoned construction site. A lot of construction sites had been abandoned within the last few years, so security really wasn't a problem. It was very quiet and clean and stayed warm on cold nights if you had enough blankets, which he stashed in the dumpster next to it.

And then all of a sudden, this little catholic school suburb lit up. People where crying and screaming and freaking out and packing bags, and calling distant family members, and it was almost like a plague but no one was really sick, just panicked. The Brentons come running out of their decently spacious cape cod and they recognize Moses from their son Brad's basketball games, where Moses even sang the national anthem once in a very Frank Sinatra interpretation that made Mrs. Brenton just fall over herself. She really liked Frank Sinatra. So Moses says to the Brenton's, with all this chaos all about, "What's wrong?"

Mr. Brenton, stern and grey haired puts his arms around his crying and sober family of four and says, "Haven't you heard? The U.S. dollar has collapsed. It's worth nothing. We are going to my brother's cottage in Indiana, away from the city. What are you going to do?"

Moses thought for a second. What would he do? They hadn't been taking cash bills for buses recently, just tokens issued through Publicgoodworks, but would it still be running now that money was dead? Should he be running? This nice family thinks they need to get away. Moses was just silent and kind of staring at the Brentons bewildered but unchanged. He didn't really need any money anyways. And for him money seemed easy to get and passing. Scalping tickets, never paying rent. Be he was very aware of how much other people needed money. Now he was scared.

Mr. Brenton gets an idea. "You live in the city, don't you Moses?"

He nods blindly, yes. Mr. Brenton hands him keys. "These are to the house, Moses. Why don't you stay here tonight. You can call your family and be a watchdog for the house for a while. Who knows what people will do? What do you say?" Mr. Brenton attempts a smile. But he can't smile right now. He's too scared himself. He feels as if he has nothing. His bank accounts are empty and Publicgoodworks is taking the inner city residents to government camps in abandoned stadiums and schools because of riots and threats of starvation. So his face just looks crooked, crying without tears. Absolutely pissed-offed.

Moses takes the keys. He says good luck to the Brentons as they look a little worried because he has no contact information to offer them. No cell phone or home phone and just a forwarding address which is to the only social worker he'll talk to and meets up with every three months or so just to make sure that somebody will know when he's sick or dead. He doesn't have a home. Or a phone.

And off they go.

Now here is Moses Bentley, would you believe it, with a beautiful, fully furnished suburban home all to himself. He didn't smile, and still tries not to smile too much because he is afraid to curse his good fortune. He just sat on the sofa at that moment he heard the family drive off with most of the neighbors in a stampede. The huge grey magnificent sofa that felt like violet petals and became a place to rest undisturbed, warm and comfortable. It felt like a temple, a sanctuary. He was the only one for miles who felt safe.

Moses tends the home to this day, still sleeping on the sofa and dusting the bedrooms out once in a while in case the Brentons ever come home. He grows some herbs and tomatoes in the back in the summer. He and a few of those left in the suburb have a bigger setup down the road, with an irrigation system and all. He now spends his day getting through Mrs. Brenton's romance novels, growing wheat, vegetable, and hemp with the neighbors and baking sourdough bread which he trades with his neighbors for other things he needs. Moses is happy for the first time in his life, wearing Mr. Brenton's old gym sweats and flannels. There is an ironic hymn of sorts circling the nation, that Moses finds himself humming in lazy afternoons, "Long live the death of the Dollar."

IV.

The Brenton family died two days after money.

They drove to Mr. Brenton's brothers cottage in Indiana, just north of Cedarville. They had reserves of the last of the gasoline, like so many others who waited with buckets as the gas stations started to close throughout the nation just a few months before. The Brenton family brought all the extra gasoline and propane they could and stuffed the trunk with their fuel and a few changes of clothes. The gas was more than enough to get them their and back and cook dinner for themselves for they were guessing three weeks minimum.

The smell and fumes leaked into the car and was inhaled by the family of four during the entire five hour trip where they were afraid to stop in passing cities and towns because of the news of riots and shop burning. The whole family had headaches and went to sleep right away when they arrived at the cottage, which was a little dusty but cozy on the north end of Long Lake.

Their two sons who rode in the back of the midsized sedan didn't wake up, their blond, pubescent heads blue and crystalline with death. Mrs. Brenton was a mess, sick herself with the feeling of blisters on her esophagus, when she discovered the boys lifeless in the morning and she would not stop crying. Absolutely hysterical, the only words she could get out were strange and muffled, like she wasn't even there.

Mr. Brenton ran around talking to few and far between neighbors, or 'survivors,' as they where calling themselves, trying to find police, doctors, hospitals, a few who said they knew CPR or use to work at one of the hospitals came by the cottage. But they all just said the boys where dead and lots of people right now are dead and that the parents needed to handle the bodies themselves because everything was so backed up or broken down since money died. The 'survivors' in the area asked them to please not contact the Publicgoodworks as they would not appreciate them in the area. Some of them had guns which they patted as they asked that favor. Mr. Brenton fallowed suit, putting a small pistol under his belt, not fully trusting these new neighbors.

Mr. Brenton put the boys' bodies in the lake as Mrs. Brenton scratched and sobbed at his side. It was terrible. The bodies where rapped in sheets and they did not sink quickly enough for Mr. and Mrs. Brenton. Neither of the parents was responsive to the other as they imagined the bodies being nothing more than fish food. Mr. Brenton thought of how many fish over the years he had eaten from this lake, and how now, these fish would be tainted with the taste of his own sons' flesh. He vomited. Mrs. Brenton scratched at her face with her manicured nails in order to redirect the pain from her inside to the out. They had slipped into their own worlds as they paid their respects with simple confusion and horror. In the end, they had nothing to say. They went back into the cottage and held each other silently, pervasively.

Then a man from down the road came to ask the Brentons if they wanted to trade anything for his zucchini. Prize winning in the county fair not two years ago. He knocked on the door at exactly the wrong time. Mr. Brenton answered with the handgun in tow and shot him in the chest, without even looking him in the eye. He shot him out of fear and frustration, nothing else, no thought of malice, just a tranquility of ignorance in a time when knowledge is the only thing he wished he had. The zucchini trader fell back, shocked then dead, on his bag of vegetables. Mr. Brenton remembered he was hungry.

Mr. Brenton then turned around to see his pale faced wife almost blue. Like she had forgotten how to breath, or she had never taken a breath at all. "What are you now, a killer?" she said. "Did you kill money, Montgomery, since you clearly killed that man? Is this all your fault? You were my life and now it's ruined, is it your fault? Did you do this to us? Are you going to kill me? Did you kill your sons? What the hell is going on!?"

She grabbed the gun, shot her husband, shot herself.

The zucchini farmer's wife and daughter were devastated when the scene was discovered the next day by the search party they put together. Mr. and Mrs. Brenton went into the lake with their sons, the neighbors unknowingly reuniting the family. The zucchini farmer was buried just outside his beloved zucchini patch, where his wife knew he would be happy to help along the growth of his favorite crop anyway he could. He daughter inherited Mr. Brenton's gun, with her mother's encouragement, and she would learn to defend herself.

V.

The death of money was a sad and slow and painful death. So frail of an old papery man laid out before me with dying breaths a faint, sarcastic smile the old man money has been withering into nothing in the back of a statuesque marble palace with bronzed plaque names of long dead grandfather and his jackal poker businessmen friends.

Things have been vanished since his just beyond golden time, time-shares and the unaccountable, but we're making it and i walk in wearing sterile white, on-call coming with a sponge so to wipe his mouth and the almost constant foam rising slowly like a tide, with his eyes green and white glazed over so calmly and humming, waiting for his lungs to drowned themselves out of this world. So old. He has used himself up. It only seems natural.

But it's ghastly, really. The smell of death and bodies. I never wanted to be a nurse. But there is a call for the care givers in all this nonsense, so here i am, smelling of rubbing alcohol and spooning prune juice into an already rotting corpse of a body, just waiting for the end of my shift when i can go take a bath with Diego and be done with this.

VI.

Two lovers find themselves in disastrous times a few months after the death of money. Bombs, shots, fires beyond but so close to their windows in the city. The world outside them is falling apart and they've drawn the curtains. They rationed all the food they had left, the dried stuff in the cupboard, whatever they could scrounge up from local, abandoned shops. But now have not eaten for 4 days. They are weak and tired and spend their days reading old books and sleeping in each others arms. They are dying in a new war front where mine fields and police chefs Publicgoodworks cluster-fuck in dark urban corners. There are camps for the local refugees, and the electrical infrastructures are completely wiped out.

The discussion came up one on the evening of the 4th day without food.

"Darling. What if I told you I wanted to die so you could eat me," she says seriously, steady eyes, shaky hands. "I mean, what's the point of us both starving to death? What if this is what i could give to you?"

He looked like he was choking on his own tongue while the words came out of her hungry mouth. Almost like it could water for idea of anything to eat. But no, not this.

"What a terrible thing to say. If we are dying then we are dying together. I'll go out there right now and find some neighbors' dog before i let you start making suggestions such as that."

"The dogs are gone. i saw the Robinsons grilling their dog Jeff two days ago. There's no food left here. I don't know what's happening or why we're here, but here we are. Cut off and starving and dying and poisoned for all we know, but maybe if you had the strength you could walk as far as you could walk out of here and see what you find. Past the camps, because god knows what's going on in there. But you certainly can't do it in the state you're in right now.

"I can't see you like this. It's killing me. You are whithering away in front of me." You could see the tears, the clenched muscles in her face. She was completely broken down, lost.

She went up to kiss him. He closed his eyes and felt her soft, familiar lips. It was all too much and he was so weak and hazy and so tired. And then she walked into the kitchen while his eyes we still shut and taking it in, her comment and the kiss, she took out a chefs knife an slit her own throat, falling to the floor, choke-coughing twice while now looking him strait in his now open eyes and she died. She was dead, like money, like this city, like his life. He couldn't move at first, let alone breathe. He's not sure how long he sat there looking at her.

The next thing he knew he was sobbing and holding her limp body on the kitchen floor. He didn't know whether to hate her for abandoning him or admire her pure will in this situation, her ability to be bold even if morbid and foolish in his eyes. She was always so god damn stubborn.

VI.

When Rhonda Miller got in line for the camp she was petrified. It was two weeks after the death of money. Almost nine months pregnant and alone, Rhonda chewed her gum for six hours in that line without being allowed to use the bathroom. She tapped he foot four times or more a step and had many more than a few disapproving looks from the composite families and friends standing in line around her. Most folks did not show up to the camps alone. She was brought here.

In the declining days of money, Rhonda sold and traded weed to pay her bills after she dropped out of college. She had been a student and a large state school when Publicgoodworks took over in the beginning stages of the death of money. Anyone granted a government grant or scholarship now had to serve at least 3 years working for the Publicgoodworks in their particular field. The school and curriculum were cut and changed. The second-hand history and literature books she had once loved to curl up with late into dorm life nights turned into a baby blue composite of all they needed her to know, standardized reading and comprehension for the masses, as determined by the Sate. She left school one day when it was a particularly sunny afternoon and many of the students were lounged and laughing on the common lawn in the middle of campus, baby blue books scattered all around them. All the same book, same color, thicknesses, different subjects, the same information dictated in math problems and essays on ancient civilization, published by Publicgoodworks, as told and taught for the sake of Publicgoodworks. Rhonda dropped her own baby blue books in the fountain at the end of the lawn and walked off the campus, never to return because of the eerie feeling of being livestock.

As more than one college student in her time, she smoked weed on a regular basis, innocently enough, on the weekends with friends, discussing the decline of society with references to Ken Kesey and other now banned authors from the mandatory ready list, tongue tinged with the purple of wine type of late nights. When Rhonda left college for the last time that spring day, she went to her friend, her dealer's house, to score something to celebrate her liberation from the Publicgoodworks which she was now starting to see as Orwellian, without a doubt. People were now embracing the idea, the collectivist mentality and depravity. And she was ready for anything but Orwell come true. She had always thought it would be a future like Huxley's 'A Brave New World". Technology and happy pills and babies born in factories, human genes as the new plastic; billboards, not big brother posters. But this shit was turning into 1984. Grey backgrounds of workers, uniform in thought, where all-for-one really means nothing and nobody. She totally needed a smoke, something outside their jurisdiction.

So, Brad, the best hook-up on campus, busted out the blueberries and listen to the exhilarated woes of Rhoda as she explained her escape from school and the uniformity she could no longer stomach. And to her surprise, he offered her a job.

"Listen. Business is up and I can't keep up with it recently. I could use the help. I've known you for, what, three years, and you've been an exemplary customer, never asking for a tab or credit or any bullshit like that. You can start with doing some small runs for me. Plus you're a chick. So if I can convince you to wear a skirt, business will go boom-boom!" Brad was stoned and serious but smiling, reclining in the chestnut brown cushion of his faded, wicker-framed chair.

"Sure." said Rhonda. Why not? she thought. The only way to stay out of Publicgoodworks these days was to work in the black market, selling drugs, sex, or art.

So her new career began.

Within two weeks Rhonda had moved into a renovated warehouse on the far north side of town, it's portions converted into studios for living and painting or sculpture, mostly. There were one or two cubes, as they called them, that were sound proof for the house musicians. The warehouse had been owned by a high school art teacher who left the place to two of his students, who turned it into this sort-of commune, putting up partitions. Since money had been become more and more scarce, you could find this type of communal living going on all over the place, sprouting up like flowers in the crack of the concrete. Those lucky enough to have had structural property such as this at the decline could open their doors to whoever they wanted for whatever they wanted. This place reeked of anarchy and paint thinner. People traded their talent to live here, so there were no untalented people to slow it down. She was to trade her weed, which made it more than easy to feel wanted and get to know every member of the cubes.

It was here she met Howard Mitchell. When he introduced himself quietly she laughed at his name, giggly-stoned and called him 'Howie' and made a reference to 'Howard the Duck' at some point in the conversation. She felt girlish around him and half smiled at his lack of meekness she found in his quietness, which was amazingly assertive. Howard was tall, skinny, and had Native American blood with high, chiseled cheeks. He was completely introverted in his existence and an artist who was also in charge of the electrical wiring of the place a had pieced together the generated that keep the entirety powered. This was a point in history, Rhonda thought, when the artist become practical, when there is a need to create new things. His art was generally composites of disregarded home electronics, half-smashed TV's and radiator ducts, but through this he had learned how to efficiently power a warehouse where over thirty people at any given time resided, with nothing more than some copper coiling and an every energy producing compost pile. He was well respected and considered a leader in the community. He said he wanted to be left alone and spent most of the time in his cube, coming out and taking a break from his personal work only when there was a direct need. A light switch to re-wire, a meal to eat.

So, while the outside world seemed to fall apart, Rhonda found a new kind of peace in her life. She had simply lied to her parents, who were a four hour drive away, and let them think she was still in school, in the dorm, being indoctrinated into Publicgoodwork as a Publicgoodworker. They thought that was safe, doing what the news told them to do was safe in their minds. But instead she spent her days learning the finer art of business; visiting clients, keeping records of transactions, answering a never ending stream of emails, learning the nuts-and-bolts of growing from Brad and the Carson's, the growers, and of course demonstrating and selling or trading the product.

She was happy, for the first time in her life. Yeah, the almost constant smoking of cannibals certainly didn't hurt, but she felt productive and truly respected those who were teaching her the new trade. Like the others who had decided to go it alone, not through Publicgoodworks, she traded her goods for other goods most of the time. A dime bag bought her a nice meal or a bag of groceries, sometimes you got lucky and people traded in silver coins, very rarely, some gold. A quarter bi-weekly was her rent. She spent two or three days a week out in Brown County, an hour bike ride from her home in the cubes, where she helped weed and harvest and tend to the crop she helped to trade. Rhonda gave the farmers, Mr. and Mrs. Carson, her labor, her connections, and classic Johnny Cash albums she pick through crumbling record stores for whenever possible, to get her share of the crop to trade. She was a hard worker, who didn't dawdle or chat with the others, but always had a queer smile on her face as she hummed among the growing greens surrounded by forest in the mid-western, rolling hills valley.

She and Howard were now spending their evenings together. Rhonda simply enjoyed watching him fussing with wires or metal or paint with greasy hands that never seemed to stop in their mission of making something. Howard was happy to find company that did not expect him to talk or explain what he did, but would simply let him do it, unquestioning and amused. It was one of those evenings that turned into nights with Howard that Rhonda became pregnant. She had told Howard immediately and directly that she was pregnant and he looked at her as he looked at one of his projects, wide-eyed and intent, like she was the ultimate electric generator that he had all of a sudden made work but was still not sure of how exactly he did it, like a project not quite done, but, boy was he eager. The other residents of the cubes in general were kept in the dark about the new addition. This communal living situation was still in it's infancy and no one living there had had a child yet, and in an environment where everyone pulled their weight, what was a baby suppose to do beside provide fertilizer for the flowerbeds, at best? So they kept quiet, up the fresh greens and dairy in her diet, and life went on for a while.

It was six months into the pregnancy, hidden by Howard's paint-stained hoodies, when Publicgoodworks claimed the cubes as public domain. The word of their generator and it's success spread beyond the walls of this neighborhood, and any success these days was publicised for the good of the people, not for those who made them, needed them, but for those who submitted. Publicgoodworkers came in with masks and guns and Howard watched them tear his art, the generator, out of the wall with crow bars and a blowtorch. He felt the weight of the wrench in his hand, he had been fixing a bicycle in the back when he heard the commotion. Howard moved towards the generator. If they were going to abuse it, he would destroy it. He never went after the Publicgoodworkers, but strait towards the machine they were after. He was in handcuffs after one blow to the motherboard. It was self-defence in his mind. His creation was a part of him. He had nothing to say on his way to the black, windowless van. Rhonda has no idea what happened to Howard after that afternoon and she never would.

She hopped around from friend to friend until she was almost fully pregnant, taking up more space, somewhat in denial, but always in pain. She missed Howard. Rhonda was to the point of ripeness and too awkward to work on the cannabis crops, but the farmers, the Carsons, and Brad helped her with food and bigger clothing when she needed it. And then money officially died.

Brad took her out to the farm in a stolen car that he returned once he was done. "You can't be in the city," was all he said. She didn't argue. They rode in silence. Half of the small university town burned withing the first twelve hours of the death of money, including the cubes, the three biggest groceries, and the banks.

Rhonda sat by the small pond by day, behind the fields, away from the house, eating apples to calm her stomach and she thought about how her family probably thought she was dead if they were not themselves dead. The sunlight trickled placidly and a light wind sent the trees and water quivering at their own paces, through the same gentle, invisible change of temperature, she thought of black matter fluctuation.

In the evenings out in the country, she slept in a small back room with the two little girls of the Carsons' home, their names Caylin and Joyce, five and seven. She read them books and they talked about names for the baby and giggled with them about fairy tales until they fell asleep. It was at that moment, the moment after Joyce was smiling into slumber by offering the name Boomer for the baby that Publicgoodworks knocked down the door.

It had only taken two short weeks for the Publicgoodworks to spread their domain beyond the cities, into the nearby residential and small farm land. They said they needed this land. Rhonda was separated as not part of the family and shipped to a nearby Publicgoodworks camp for medical treatment. She told them that she was pregnant, not sick. They did not seem to know the difference. Mr. Carson was arrested for non-compliance and his wife and daughters watched not only the cannabis fields burn, but their vegetable garden, their almost full silo of wheat, and their chicken coop. The act would have smelled delicious on the stove, but drove horror into the divided family. The smell of a cooked meal would be discomforting to the girls for years to come.

So now here she is, fat and bloated and needing to pee pregnant at a government camp with god know what kind of medical facilities, not even trying to think of the toilet situation, that resides in an old middle-school. Cots in the gym and all. She was imagining the needles and the knives that were far from the natural birthing techniques she had been practicing with the Mrs. Carson during the last few months.

She was nearing the front of the line of lost souls, chain-linked and barbwire on either side, divided and filed and men with helmets and guns pointing the way. Rhonda began to cry. She cried for Howard, the Carsons, her own lied to mother and father. She cried for herself, in this position right now, more than anything else. It was her death sentence, entering these gates, having to do whatever the men with guns told her to do. She sat and sobbed on the ground, unable to move. She thought of the Jews.

A gurney was brought out for the pregnant woman making a spectacle of herself. It was best to remove disturbances from the crowd. Those kinds of spectacles and what cause disturbance, the dead bodies being carried away held much more control than the guns. The Publicgoodworkers were surprised she had no accompaniment with her, asking all those around her while they shook their bewildered heads, not sure whether to scorn or sob with the girl being wheeled away. The men took her through the check point directly to the medical center and Rhonda looked at the ceiling, not at the people around her. She felt the motion around her and the lights on her face, but heard nothing around her. The doctor wore the same baby blue uniform as all the men with guns. He did not ask Rhonda any questions. He simply knocked her out with a sedative, the needle in the sterile, baby blue latex hands. He cut her open, and took out the baby who was not ready to be born. The babied died a few hours later and was never buried. Rhonda was shot in the back three days later when she was almost strong enough to climb the barbwire fence.

Muses on the Fly

2009-07-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

this is commentary. i comment
with pristine phases on the inadequacy
of experience. low lights and ceilings
debugging the dreams of late...
i dream of racing through mud puddles on dope
and winning by shear will and malice
and of slamming doors
and breaking glass on my father as i ought to
because he has no right to be here
and of old loves refusing to help me carry boxes
heavy and slippery
even though they work there
and I'm spending a fortune.
i spend
hours alone with myself
my thoughts as company and wondering
what next steps to take for myself
if they want me
to bring about creative ways of posing myself in positions
of responsibility.

but who an i to say that it is inadequate
and who am i to say these are even my dreams
and if they are not - then they are just
nighttime tv with no breaks or sponsorship
and i should be judging myself by my actions
so much more than the outcome
because the outcome is really never mine to see.

don't rush me. my throat is sore. and i can't see without my glasses.

Nothing can be as problematic As a guilt complex.

2008-10-27T16:57:00.000-07:00

Born
Akin to the rioters of the first
Denomination. It’s my
Fault, I did it and I
Want to be sacrificed- so
The crowd gathers in front
Of the judge while heresy’s
Proclaiming the monsterous diversion
To who we really are. The sin
Boils deep in the skin,
Black plague of bourgeois
Pigs gutting villagers for a
Saturday night. Burn the witches
Along with there children
Because all sons of the devil
Are destined to torment
Each other over
The redefinition of pain.
It seems that godliness may be
More difficult to explain,
Like proving a negative.

Disability Act Cooper

2008-09-11T19:34:00.001-07:00

Almost 125,000 businesses across the Midlands have received

a letter asking them to rethink

how they cater for disabled people

sent by the Department for Work and Pensions

and written by the minister for disabled people, in order to

remind companies about their legal responsibilities

under the Disability Act.

“…all too often, disabled people come up against

businesses that haven’t considered their needs, and so

they take their custom elsewhere.”

Businesses need to recognize that it’s not just about doing the right thing

it’s about being profitable too

it’s about disability discrimination and a profit-oriented health care system

some find it galling.

People think it kind to grant the wish of a severely disabled person who asks us to help them die.

Disability so 'bad' that no 'reasonable' person would want to endure it

aching hands that struggle with the simple, uncontrollable

laughter, babbling soliloquies on the bus, a janitor

government funded idiot or disappearing pain trick

hospital dope for accidents, people who need a prayer line

call into the miracle network

and is it wrong

to lump disability rights’ opposition of assisted death

with that of the Christian right?

They’ve got there own reasons, excuses for missing-

what if nothing can be done about the undignified lives of people with disabilities except to help them die

but God gets in the way; made even the cripples and losers in his liking and now

a Staffordshire church could be closed because of the cost of upgrading to meet the Disability Discrimination Act.
They couldn’t keep carrying a little girl in a wheelchair

up and down the steps

skinny, icky Jackie 5 with the red lips and crooked legs

tears in her smudged eyes when she’d ask

to get out.

Some Staffordshire children teased they’d throw her in the river-

if she survived we’d know she’s faking it.

Godzilla Vs. Jesus Christ

2008-09-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

On the last day

Jesus descends on Tokyo

spread arm with rectifying angels

heavenly bound, grace above downtown lights-

Jesus Christ glows fierce with glory

his holy halo is awe-inspired and growing in the

life-size portrait of unconditional love.

But the police got scared

and called in the reserves to fight off

the angels and the blessings of doom-day’s judgment

and they brought in the tanks and flame

throwers and snipers and Jesus Christ grew

into his epitome of forgiveness, love out of hatred and

was soon big enough to step on buildings

so he awakens Godzilla of ancient race,

mutant of atomic science gone wrong

and all the Tokyo citizens watch

as the big lizard impales Jesus Christ and

drags the bloody angels back with him to the sea.

fear is not irrational

2008-09-11T19:24:00.000-07:00

question everything

fear is not irrational

it is a natural exploit of your needs, desires
if a tiger walked onto the set

would you not interrupt me?

you see, i am afraid
i've been waiting since 1994 for someone to tell me
that the incarceration of the population has nothing to do with government discord.
i can't get a job in that factory, they work for free but we don't call it slavery
unless i fuck for the guns, kill cops for fun, do what must be done
in those presumptive, perhaps primitive situations
i thought i might die
or cry
which is really just a few steps down

my guts wrench at the thought of collecting numbers and paying for bombs
glorified regimens propagating salvation
god bless america
i am afraid
that some day i may not be able to pay
and then they'll just lock me away
collecting bodies in jails like piggybanks
we are the commodity
forget the gold standard, have you seen these lips
speak words of truth and kiss
these hips giving an essence of an ethereal, eternal, life-giving bliss

all, we've got to prove to them
is that you can't buy everything
so let me show you how i sing
it too can be a little frightening

dissatisfaction could be the greatest asset
for the fact that i want to prove that i can improve
move through growths and inspiration
so i hold my fear dear
and complacency is so very dull.

Dear Mother,

2008-09-10T14:40:00.000-07:00

Your women's liberation has failed. As you sit at home
smoking your food stamp cigarettes and eating
government cheese, I keep reminiscing about all
the free-thought you taught me shortly after the 70's.

You taught me about free-love, and then showed me
a life with the state as my father, and a life with unruly
children. You taught me about women making their own
decisions only to be shown the sweetheart who pushes
abortion instead of being responsible for his own
sexuality.

Independence is not drug use,
liberation is not negligence.

Now I stand before the world so changed by reckless
generations and see these opportunities you have
provided as a burden on my womanhood.

Equal rights is a human issue - not a gender.
We should be respected
for who and what we are, not expected
to be standardized, de-gendered.

Now I must negotiate my right
to educate my perspective children
outside of this standardization in order
to give then a structure beyond glorified feudalism.

I must re-prove the value
of feminine gentleness and fortitude.

Why is it that you doubted your own
skills and ability? What is so distasteful
to you about providing a happy home?
Is there really anything more important?
I refuse to be a women without regard
to my given attributes. I will relish in the fact
that I am able to practice the home arts - I will
feed my friends and family with butter-crust love
and heal wounds with kisses. Empowerment
comes from being - and appreciated - for being
who you are.

I do not want to transcend my natural assets -
I want to be loved for being the barer of all
human civilization. That is what I call respect.

Let's face it. The pants suit will never
get you as far as the little red dress.
Your sex should be dignified,
your love should be won.

I have been suppressed by all your political correctness.
Now let me show you how it's really done.

Yours truly,
daughter