Feminism- Micro Post


Be strength.
But especially be strength before words.
Because words are made more powerful
only by those who speak them.

Words are a privilege,
Language uncertain,
actions speak louder then words.

Mrs. Kham, Head of a village cluster heath center from the Ahka ethnic group in Phongsaly, Lao PDR. Photo by Adrian Gnaegi


This Native Skin

The world exists in a vacuum of sand and sun,
cut between wind and rock,
stained red and veined in black.
Above earth and under heaven mingle spirits,
painted purple, orange, and blue
by the fingers of the cycling Sun.

Heat breathes between ink night and bleached light
devouring mud, moist from desert rain.
But the pine buries white roots deep,
circumventing the Sun,
dipping into sweet water springs.

The world is vast,
sacred in its menace
and trusted to the few.

Pushed and pulled through the sand,
they wedge their toes between red cracks,
presiding across their their rigid earth.
Determined to stand between the mountains,
they rise with voices fronting the migrating heat.

But still, their four sacred watchmen
shutter their gazes, only blessing those within.
And beyond, the ones who were taken?
They press towards the sky:
burning brown irises for only a glimpse of
their kin through the Sun.

They are the People,
thrice and once born from under the earth
into a vacuum of sand and sun.


Artist: Black Sheep Art Collective  Mural Photograph: StreetartSF.com

Infant Inks

My mother has two infant pictures of me. She tells me I didn’t smile much but I had bright eyes and strong fingers. I remember that first picture.The one outside, in the spring sun and grass. I sat up on a rug, back straight but with a steady say, one foot nuzzled in the warmth of each hooked knee. To me, this world was the sea, splashing the green sea foam grass over the sides of my rug, a deck of rough woolen wood. I knew that if I stood I’d have to battle my stormy equilibrium, to gather my sea legs if I hoped to not tumble off the gangplank and splash back into the grass. I was content to watch the sun glint low over the fish scales of black ants, to watch my parents sail into the deeper water, circling with me as their anchor. But most importantly I listened to the wind and the comfort in his voice as he fished for the shiver in my spine.

Image: Sabin Boykinov


Crest of gold filter through dingy blinds /

long and hot /

salty sweat like blood from a wound /

9 o’clock PM /

the sun still shining /

I want sleep /

with mother, in her womb /

a mother before learning to love /

the chill will unwind me /

seep between my bones /

freeze my fingernails /

steal this breath /

But Lord God in heaven /

would I be free of the Sun.

The Fishers

This man, he travels from table to table like a wet silk panther. He is sleek in his black coat. His smile is almost pleasant but for the gloss coat of whiskey slicked across his lips whenever he licks them. The hunting hours start at 5pm each Monday, Wednesday and Friday. He orders a water, a whiskey and sour, and compliments the wait staff. Perhaps a about comment about my shade of lipstick or an appreciative once over of Marcus’ choice in over coat.

Next comes the steady sitting at table 4 near the door, sipping from his glass. I avoid catching his eyes when I buss past him, keeping my gaze trained on the wet path my towel makes as I clear tables. Women never approach him, but they appear to appreciate his initial company when he slides down next to them at the bar. They are charmed; he is aggressive in a lion-like manner with his smooth brown mane. He uses words like “miss” and “young lady”. I see him leave with a variety of personalities, both short leather skirts and pleated blossom blouses; woman who look easy and woman who make him do paces to appease their pride.

I know, and have witnessed, that some men bring black nights to women. Perhaps, they should have expected as much? In this place, in the places like this. But this man? Each of his one-night ladies always come back. And they are never wounded more than they are in pride when he steps off with another who is not them. He’s the cleanest sleaze I’ve seen.

He came alone at first, for three months. Until recently. A woman followed in with hair as brown as his and a mirror tilt to her smile, a sure scar of shared parentage. She named herself Karen, his sister. She sat down at the end of the bar to pester me with tales of her brother. One embarrassing snippet to cut him down every time he slicks his way into another woman. I have trouble understanding the two her and he, together and related. Whenever he comes over to speak to her, he stands a ways to her left. If there was anyone who at this bar who shifts to timid and wounded, it is him when he sees her. Later, I learn they are partners. She is the fisher-woman and he is the bait.

The tab, a combination of his, Karen’s, and his night woman’s drinks, is always paid by the sister. She leaves a sizable tip that sweetens our wariness but doesn’t take the edge off of the falseness of her smile. I used to believe she was feminist, with her brashness and take no prisoners attitude. But now I know she’s an asshole, nondiscriminatory in her prejudices, with a raw ability to find flaws in even the most agreeable people that walk through our doors. Some nights I want to lean over and slap her. But sometimes…often more then I’d like to admit… she’s more right than many others.

‘Women, as much as men,’ she tells me, ‘perpetuate sexism. This is why I have to be such as asshole,’ she leans over close to me, ‘to smack the prissiness out of them. Men get called misogynistic, but I have the ‘get out of jail free’ card.’ She points down to her pants. ‘My vagina.’

I think she’s hateful and sour, but I get paid to give her drinks and for all her words she doesn’t create trouble or pester us when we’re busy. When I first witnessed her brother, Bruce, talk a woman into sleeping with him I thought he was the asshole. But when juxtaposed to his sister, his smile at least shows an honesty when he talks to them. He has a twenty-first century romanticism about him, built around phones with names attached to numbers he’ll never have to try to remember. A one night wonder man, transparent.

Tonight, Karen sits in her usual seat. However, as the night has been unusually busy, another of our regulars is forced to sit beside her. Typically seated at stool 8, she is an older woman, a mother and a wife: a nonentity in Bruce and Karen’s ploys. But she talkative and I myself have enjoyed her softly buoyant laughter and watery voice. After a few moments of silence, she speaks to Karen.


Image: Jonny Lindner

Rain Man [Alternative]

I taste you on the air, Rain Man.
Are you caught behind the mountain?
The pale daughter of the sun, Rain Man,
stalks behind the storm.

We are in darkness, pitch thick,
save for the smell:
Of damp stone and dark leaves,
Tamed sand and the musk of moist fur.

I know you were here, Rain Man.
when we, the people,
were still under the earth.

Grandfather shale reminds us of that liquid age.
My fingers have traced stone spines of strange creatures,
with legs that ran over the crust land of the sea,
Alien insects that burrowed into the salted mud.

I feel forgotten when I find them.
So I lay them side by side,
concentric circles,
to lure your eyes and entice your memories.
Perhaps, if you see your stone sea sperm,
you will remember us,
the children who followed after.

Devour the sand,
wash it from where it sticks in our lungs.
Blind the gold skies black,
for the sun scorches
even our blood hardened skin.

We of the wind and the sand and the sun.
We of the sage and the stone.
We often forgotten, by you, Rain Man,
the people below the mountain.

Alternative Version posted July 7


Images: Navajo Dance-Edward S. Curtis,  Trilobite-kevinzim

Indian May [Excerpt]- Native American

White bones from a brown girl were mingled amoung the colonial graves. They say keys fill her marrow bones. To a life bygone of a scalded, now withdrawn people. These Indian bones bequeathed back to the earth. After death, her life dissected. They are careful to chip away at Mother Earth’s cradle around her bones. And then, after pages brimmed with sterile thoughts, a glass case to keep her protected.

From her cage, the Indian girl see’s little eyes, little fingers pressed against her walls. She hears clipped heals, a stampede of hoove-less mares and their daytime charges. Although they wear different clothes their cheeks remain the same smooth pink, skin never kissed by the Sun. There is another beside her. A warrior, his skin laid open. Toiled arrows lined out shaft-less, their wood and feather dissolved back into mother earth’s bosom.

“Wasn’t she beautiful?” asks a father, his own daughter bounced on his hip. She is a little too big and wiggles and squirms until her feet touch the ground. Behind the glass she sees a face. Deep brown, wide cheeked and stern, the Indian girl’s skull re-fleshed and skinned with a computer face. The father’s daughter smears an oily finger over the Indian girl’s brow. She traces her jaw line, presses her own nose as close to the Indian Girl as the cage allows.

The milk brown of her cheeks are hard to forget…

Image: Edward S. Curtis

Additional Info 1987: NYTimes