Hot Off the Press! Art for the Movment

I have set up my silk screening studio and starting printing. I am currently working on shirts and patches that will be sold to benefit recent national protests against police murders and brutality.


I also open for orders. I people have idea of a print they want to make for your project, your band, your general coolness get at me. I will be charging on a sliding scale, free for movement work and we will work something out for everything else.


No Love

for those who struggle on the sidelines

I’ve been to the anarchist strongholds

of Olympia.

I’ve fought in the streets

beside you for 9 years.

Tear gas, rubber bullets, flash grenades

batons, bikes, dogs.

Snipers on the roof.

I helped hold autonomous land

with the unhoused in the bay area

until it was taken and paved.

I marched in teamster picket lines

for unions that would never hire me.

I pretended to be dead

lying down for those who are murdered

in the countries this one is bombing.

I facilated a stressful action meeting

for hours

only to me interrupted

yelled at and over

by my dearest friends.

I got arrested violently

in the middle of the night,

in the middle of on off ramp

in front of a tank.

All night alone in a cell.

Only to be told in the morning

That it would be good

for the movement if one of us had died.

I joined a cadre

only to be betrayed

and left in a ward

when my brain

stopped working I was dying

I sat in

I walked out

I bashed back

I lost my voice

I was talked over

I was overlooked.

When I am gone

you wonder

Who made those cookies we ate in the port in the middle of the night?

Who called my mom when I was taken by the state?

Who washed the dishes after the potluck?

Who flyered all night so a handful might show up to our last minute action?

She is still here comrade

waiting patiently

for your solidarity.

break the laws/break the chains: political reflections on Mike Brown and White Supremacy from Oakland CA

from a sister in the struggle.

Kissing in the Dark...


To be free is to break the law

“Nobody in the world, nobody in history, has ever gotten their freedom by appealing to the moral sense of the people who were oppressing them.”

-assata shakur

 I write to you from a humbled place. Striving to be a warrior for my people; looking and listening. This is an attempt to share some political reflections as a Black womyn in the struggle since I left the womb. The last two days Turtle Island (united states) has been on fire in solidarity with Mike Brown’s family and Ferguson, Missouri to protest the murder of Mike Brown by pig Darren Wilson, who continues to live freely with no charges filed against him. Mike Brown, like many of my brothers and sisters before me, was murdered for being a Black man in the White mans system. A system built out of the genocide of…

View original post 2,279 more words

fresh ink

I could say                                          I could say

prisons                                                         rape

were build                                        was created

to contain                                             to destroy

your strength.                                       my power.

you’re in danger


you leave the pad.

I was locked

in home

trying to run

for 17 years

of abused living.

I’ve been trying to leave

you’ve been trying to come home

we like the same songs.   we dance to the same beats.   we pray to the same saints.

i do ceremony for you

for all those like you

poor, brown, loved.

for all those like me

poor, mixed, loving.

that we will tear down





back of the house


that we will all be

free in

our spots.

our hoods.

our islands.

our streets.

our woods.

some day we will meet outside

and our held fists

will rise toward the eastern sun.

both of you, all of us

                                                                 for all my siblings who find a way to survive.

I wouldn’t love y’all

because you’re both

too damn good for me.

too much pain. too much love.

because when I figured out

you were both

born, then both raped

in the same week

20 years apart.

I fell



like a shore crab into cracks

between beach tossed boulders.

so strong. so deep.

even you both who know almost

all of me

didn’t know how to look.

I wouldn’t love



I wasn’t’ there

to pull both

of them off you.

to knock the gun

from his hand.

to hold him up.

to hold yourselves.

to hold me.

i walk by both

your dorm buildings,

20 paces apart.

four years after.

shiver. look past. close off.

remembering the day I ran to find you.

you were gone.

crime scene tape on your dorm door

and i fell there

against the frame.

cold metal. broken lock.

remembering the time

i ran to find you.

in the gym

after he attempted.

blood from his wrists on the celling.

but you didn’t tell me till years later

during cooking dinner. and i understood

why you never cried for him.

too much. too fresh.

now, i say a prayer

as tears fall in your memory

as i walk by

as i never move on

never forget.

keep the fire lit.

so hot. so close.

Suggestion Box

I got em
Mixed state?
I own em
I tried em
Sleeping pills?
I saved em

I got it
I got em
Set fires?
I burnt that
Too much sex with strangers?
I did that
Forced intercourse?
Yes of course

I live that
Ruin my world
Trouble keeping work?
Who doesn’t?
Feel safe at home?

What does that mean?

History of trama?
my middle name.

I made em
More meds?
I tried em
Medical conditions?
wake me every morning
Self harm?
since I can remember
Harm to others?
not when it counted
Property distraction?
no comment

I wondered off
I’ll smoke up
did that all night

Found god?
Praise Jesus?
Not the way you do
Pray to la virgin?
Claro que si

Got any more suggestions
for my box?
I’ll read it over
but still not tryin
to love you.

Out the Window

our house was three rooms

with slanted floors.

condemned walls let

in their malicious whispers

and rain worked hard

to penetrate the roof.

there were only outside doors

and when I say you could hear


I mean the tension

which struck out

when it began.

at first a few splats

through sodden shingles,

into constant drip

drop filling my attic bed

sigh, turn over

            they’re at it again.