I await with hope your
scent of smoky complexity
a bellows for my lungs
unbeknownst jet engine power
you reached out
from poorest African jungle
heated by campfire
I was trying to stay out of this fight. I work for the struggle and a number of organizations in it. I have 3 part time jobs I’m barely juggling well enough to keep myself from being pushed back through the bloody and gnarled teeth of homelessness. I have family and friends and school. I suffer from anxiety, PTSD and chronic debilitating migraines. If I didn’t have access to my medication, I would not be able to function. Literally. The muscle spasms and nausea alone would keep me indoors and unable to move except to throw up for days on end. Days.
Macho Macho Clam….I want to be a macho clam…
Hearing the water splash in my bathtub as Bruce sang this song at the top of his lungs at 6 in the morning is and forever will be one of the happiest moments of my life. Bruce was safe. He was warm. He was happy. And his absolute genius woke me up with a song….
That’s why they want him. That’s why they want to take him away. He knows too much. He means too much. But there’s no one there to protect him. He’s an elder. No one will try to stop us. NO ONE WILL TRY TO STOP US.
Editor's note: this story is written in response to the murder of indigenous elder John T. Williams by Seattle po'lice officer Ian Birk in Seattle, Washington on Aug. 30, 2010; the go-f-yerself response from Mayor McGinn and the City of Seattle; and the spit-in-your face final payoff of the Williams family. The chapter is NOT closed.
PNN Washington: who are we?
We are a raucous group of Community Keepers, Media Truth Bringers, Vigilant Resisters of Truth-Decapitators and Unravelers of Media Mummies...and we're here to set the record straight.
I await with hope your
Urban myths hold secrets only revealed
by hidden cameras mandated by the state
while also underneath lies a vast underground so cruel
Our families can try to remain hidden in body armor
or venture forth with no weapon but trust,
a mission possibly ruinous
hiding in oceans swirling in hate propelled by
imagined flippers until we disappear
or to stay behind in smoking ruins, blacking out
There is no chance without maps, our only weakness denial
HELLO, my name is HANZ HARVEY BUTTERFIELD and “I AM HOMELESS!!!”
Above is the title and lead character name of a fictional short story I’m writing based on my own, very real, 12 years spent homeless.
The brain becomes a
smoldering cauldron of thought,
refining a notion
thus relieving reality; its dross.
that which is
the false of