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Taken By Trees - My Boys.mp3

2009-10-13 - extension: mp3 - size: 4 MB

Taken By Trees - My Boys

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Taken by Trees - My Boys.mp3

2009-10-01 - extension: mp3 - size: 4 MB

Taken by Trees - My Boys

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Taken by Trees - My Boys.mp3

2009-09-04 - extension: mp3 - size: 4 MB

Taken by Trees - My Boys

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Janet Kuypers poem "And I'm Wondering" Chicago 08/05/07beach
Janet Kuypers read this poem live at her feature at Beach Poets (with Cathleen Schandelmeier as the (More) Janet Kuypers read this poem live at her feature at Beach Poets (with Cathleen Schandelmeier as the host) August 5, 2007 at Loyola Beach in Chicago. A Listing of all of the poems that were read at this feature follows, and for more material from Janet Kuypers, see http://www.janetkuypers.com for audio and writing. the poem: Under The Sea I'd like to be Under the sea To see the fish go swim, I'd like to squish A jelly fish And then let go of him. I'd like to grab A soft-shelled crab And take him for a walk I'd like to hurdle Over a turtle And teach dolphins to talk. I'd like to see A manatee And then go play by him, I'd like to do All of these things If only I could swim! — the poem: last before extinction Now he has so many opportunities. He has nothing to lose. Why not come out of the wilderness, attack everything it sees. Kill something. Suck the blood out, make him feel alive for once more. Let them try to restrain him. He has nothing to lose. And for now it can fly to the highest redwood, look out over the world. Despise the world, the world that made him be alone, leaving him alone. Who will carry his name? Who will care for him when he is old? Who can he read bed time stories to? Now it can feel death creeping upon him, closer and closer. He wants to scream. He calls upon nature; the tides rise, earthquakes shatter homes. He does not feel vindicated. He has lost. And for now she can swim to the deepest darkest cave in the Pacific, hide from the solitude, swim lower and lower; can she find where all of the other animals of dying species hide, can she find them. There must be others. They can understand, they can live together, at the bottom of the earth. Could they show their pain for their species, share what is left of their love, create a new race? Soon they will be no more and we will be taking their bones, reassembling them, studying their form, rebuilding their lives, revering them more than we ever did in life. This is what it all becomes. This is what it all boils down to. Study the bones. Study the mistakes. Study the bones. — the poem: Slate and Marrow I No one could understand, it was like every morning I couldn't find a reason to wake up. The world felt cold, like slate, like the marble tiles in the front hallway of my parent's house, that floor was always cold, oh, how I'd like to feel the cold against my feet now. But there I was, in some eleven by twelve apartment, room, running from my past, my present. Every morning I would wake up, and I would wake up from that night again - when he came uninvited, or did I invite him? The haze of the drunken nights from then on, wearing the dress, knowing the faceless faces couldn't care less, as long as they could have their way with me later that night. What would my parents think of me now? I'm no longer their little girl. I could feel myself getting older by the minute, I could feel my skin wrinkling, my joints getting stiff. I could feel my bones, the marrow drying up, my bones crumbling away. And every morning I still put on my clothes, got my work together, headed out the door. Could I ever get out of this cycle? And it was if I had never realized that all this time I was looking for a purpose. And it was you. II When I strolled up to the street singer, I stopped because I saw your face. Why on earth did you think you could tell me your secrets when we only met fifteen minutes before? And just being in your presence made me break down, made me hate everything, made me love everything, made me want change. I'd hit you in rage, I'd lean on you, my slate, and you let me. And it was as if the marrow was back. I could just lay in bed at night and feel the blood running through my body, I could feel the oxygen as I inhaled hitting my bloodstream. I could even feel the marrow, all the cells in my body moving faster and faster. My skin would tingle. I suddenly had power - I could make blood move to any part of my body, I could make a pain go away, I could turn myself into stone, not so I was cold and unfeeling, but so I was strong, immovable. And I did it for me, but don't you dare think for a minute that I didn't do it for you. — the poem: i'm thinking about myself too much all of my life it has all been about you what do you need what do you want how can i help you what can i do for you and now for once i start to live and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and i think back to all the time i've spent with you and all the care i've given you and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and i've cooked for you and i've cleaned for you and i've made sure everything in your world made sense and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and all i can think is that you're only angry because i'm thinking about me at all — the poem: Children, Churches, and Daddies And the little girl said to me, "I thought only daddies drank beer." And I found myself trying to make excuses for the can in my hand. I remember being in the church, a guest at a wedding of two people I didn't know. My date pointed out two little boys walking to their seats in front of us. In little suits and cowboy boots, this is what is central Illinois. And my date said he was sure those boys would grow up to be gay. And the worst part was their father was the coach of the high school football team. I think I laughed, but I hesitated. I remember being in the church, it was Christmas Eve, my date's family went up for communion, and all I could think was that singing the hymns was hard enough, I don't know the words, what am I doing here, what am I supposed to do? And I stayed seated, and everyone else slowly walked to the front of the church. Little soldiers in a little line, the little children in their little dresses walking behind their mommies and daddies. And the little girl said, "I thought only daddies drank beer." And I found myself trying to make excuses. — the poem: you once so confidently I found you at the pool hall with your excuses for friends taking a drag from your filtered cigarette I don't even think you inhaled I hurled my anger at you the flames from my eyes struck you but your sculpted hair wasn't even singed and you remained as cool as you imagined yourself to be and as I turned away and stormed toward the swinging door the deafening silence was broken by a feeble cough I looked back and saw you and immobile emotionless statue with beads of sweat running down your forehead as I cocked my head I closed my eyes and the flames I once hurled were extinguished as quickly as the cigarette you once so confidently smoked — the poem: To The River I lead myself to the river to cleanse myself to strip myself of all evils I touch the water with my hand I watch the gentle rippling waves contort my image and change me I wade into the pureness my toes my heels my ankles immersed in the water it pushes against my skin it tingles my nerves the sand at the bottom slides around my toes the coldness of the water numbs me I stand paralyzed to the feeling immobilized by the sensation my tolerance grows and I continue to wade my calves my shins my knees they feel like ice they are changed by the water changed by the feeling I need the river I cannot wait any longer and I dive my hair ripples with the waves as my hands part the water as I swim downward further and further to cleanse myself as the light slowly disappears and I am flooded with new sensations and new emotions but as I rise once again to the surface as I emerge from the river I emerge from the cleansing and the air once again contaminates me with the evils of life — the poem: I Just Waited As I laid in the grass as the breeze rolled past my face you slept like a baby and I just waited I don't know what I was waiting for a change that wouldn't happen a smile of appreciation a warm kiss in the cool afternoon breeze a change that wouldn't happen I could tell you I love you but I'd be lying to the both of us. I could tell you I need you but you wouldn't listen. Sometimes I need to sleep while someone watches over me. I could just walk away and let you sleep yet I can't help but hope that soon you'll arise from your slumber and actually notice that I'm still there. And be happy that I'm still there. — the poem: precinct fourteen it was a long night for us, starting out at your apartment with your roommate's coworkers coming over and making margaritas until two in the morning, but of course we then decided that the best thing to do would be to go out and so off to the blue note we went, found some interesting people to talk to, closed the bar, i think that was the first time i ever did that, closed a late- night bar, i mean, and at four-thirty you drove me home down milwaukee ave and i know it angles, and you can see the traffic light for oncoming traffic as easily as you can see your own light, but i'm sure the light was green, and not red like the cops said, when they pulled you over. you could have been in big trouble that night, no insurance, no city registration sticker, a michigan driver's license when you'd lived in illinois for over a year now, a cracked windshield, running a red light, probably intoxicated. so they brought us to the station at five a.m., and all they did was write you a ticket, and they gave me a business card, said if we had any problems to give them a call. you drove me home, and the cops met us there, too, hitting on me again, and although we both agreed that the night was a lot of fun, even with the involvement of the fourteenth precinct, i still believe that damn light wasn't even red. — the poem: philosopher at the blue note he seemed so interested in philosophy, which seemed strange, sitting at a bar at about one-thirty in the morning, it didn't seem the time or place for philosophy. but i asked questions anyway, so do you believe in a god, and if so do you believe in a mono- or polytheistic religion? and he answered by saying that everyone has a god, whether it be their soul or an icon they pray to every night before they go to bed. and that it doesn't matter what form the god takes for a person, because the moral values are similar in most every religion, what matters is that we have a god of one sort or another. that most people don't pay attention to their spirituality, who they are or what they really want. no, they don't, i thought, and was amazed that this drunk man was able to formulate cohesive thoughts at two-thirty in the morning. but then, of course, he had to mention something about sexuality, and then i realized that it was all one long, drawn- out come on, then he asked me for my phone number and i gave him a fake one, and then he tried to kiss me, and i pushed him away and he ended up running out of the bar. so much for phil- osophy, i thought, and i went home once again, alone with my morals, or values, or whatever the hell you want to call them, wondering if there is anyone out there like me. — the poem: Freedom just past the Fence After working for the Army for years on repairing jet engines I ended up being stationed in Pennsylvania one summer repairing air conditioners and refrigerators. I'd only do a little work and then have nothing to do for a day or two. But the thing I remember is that at the time Cubans were defecting to the United States by boat. They'd sail to Florida, most of then dehydrated and all of them malnourished. The U.S. government didn't want them spreading diseases in our country, so when the Cubans would appear off the coast of Miami, the military would be waiting to make sure they were healthy. Well, all I knew was that they got all these Cubans into trucks we called 'cattle cars' with only a few benches and trucked them up to Pennsylvania, where I was, and the military gave them some shots to make sure they weren't dying. So these people, after escaping their country in a shoddy wooden boat were taken by the U.S. military, herded into a boxed-in truck and shipped up the country so they could be given shots and detained. These Cubans, who came here wanting freedom, now had to wait in a fenced-in area until they were tested and given food. And it was my job to make sure that their fridge and air conditioner was working. So I sat there for a day or two at a time, drinking cans of beer, and looking out my window. I had a view of the razor wire fence and all I remember was seeing all of these Cubans leaning on the chain-link fence, wondering if this was what it was like to be free, holding on to the metal, looking out to what they were sure was freedom. — the poem: Writing Your Name I sat there in the shade I took a stick I wrote your name in the ground preacher says the number one sin is lust then I am condemned to Hell for I want you and I don't care what preacher says for if the elements wash away your name tonight I will be back tomorrow to write it again. — the poem: The Beach At Night it is getting dark the day is slowly transforming itself into night the beautiful, colorful sunburst of colors sinks into the waters of the ocean the slow, steady lapping of the waves accompanies you the soft, cold sand is pressed against your feet look around this is the beach at night — the poem: All Men Have Secrets all men have secrets and here is mine. Strength is my weakness and now my shoulders don't stay in place. You ask me to open my eyes but they are. At least I think they are. Why don't you take me in your arms? Why don't you seduce me? Tear me in half. Rip me apart. Just don't cast me aside. I don't want to be strong. Be strong for me, so that I can adjust my chin and not have to worry about whether or not my eyes are open. — the poem: moonlight moonlight is a hypnotist putting people in a trance whenever you look at it it takes over your soul no one can stop it but no one wants to — the poem: too far When he met me he told me I looked like Kim Basinger long blonde locks but as time wore on I knew I wasn't her and I could never be her and I was never good enough thin enough pretty enough I got a perm straightened my teeth bought a wonder bra but it wasn't doing the trick I bought slimfast used the stair stepper ate rice cakes and wheat germ but I wasn't thin enough I only dropped twenty pounds so I went to the spa got my skin peeled soaked myself in mud wrapped myself in cellophane bought the amino acid facial creams but I knew they didn't really work so I went to the doctor got my nose slimmed my tummy stapled my thighs sucked thought about getting a rib or two removed like Cher but I figured they've got to be there for something and hey, that's just going too far — the poem: dive The water has always called to me. I had to go, I know you don't understand, but it was the end for me. You stand on the edge of the cliff, waiting, hoping, but I'm gone. I left. I was gone before I dove into the murky water. The pain that was inside me is now in the water. The tides are now stronger. They will pull the next one in with even more power. It may be you. The birds are chirping in the trees. A car will soon drive by on the road not far from your path. Life will go on, even without me. My spirit was here, in the water, before I left. I had to go. Try to understand. — the poem: And I'm Wondering I'm wondering if there's something chemical that brings people together, something that brings people to their knees, somethings that sucks them in And I'm wondering if you're sensing what I'm sensing, is it just me, am I making this up in my head, or when I glance up and catch your eyes, well, are you actually staring at me And I'm wondering if it could work out this time, if we'd have one of those relationships that no one ever doubts, especially us, because we know we'll always be in love And I'm wondering if you'd find my neurotic pet-peeves charming like how I hate it when someone touches my belly because I'm so self conscious And I'm wondering why you had to tell me when we happened to be sitting next to each other that the fact that our legs were almost touching was making your heart race And I'm wondering why I felt the need to take your cigarette and inhale, exhale while the filter was still warm from your lips, there just seconds before And I'm wondering if a year or two from now, after we've been going out and should have gotten to the point where we are bored with each other and sink into a comfortable rut if you saw me making macaroni and cheese in the kitchen using margarine and water because I'm out of milk and I've got my hair pulled back and strands are falling into my eyes and I'm wearing an oversized button-down denim shirt and nothing else, well, what I'm wondering is if you would see me like this and still think I was sexy When I glance up and catch your eyes from across the room, when I see your eyes dart away, when I feel this chemical reaction, well, what I'm wondering is, can you feel it too (Less)

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Of White Trees, Black Boys, & Jena
by Mumia Abu-Jamal recorded 7/21/07 And if I may take a page from my friend Suryu, "the (More) by Mumia Abu-Jamal recorded 7/21/07 And if I may take a page from my friend Suryu, "the Message Stupid!" Transcript: I you asked me two weeks ago if I've ever heard the name of a little town in Louisiana called 'Jena', I would've drawn a blank. Jena? Never heard of it. It made me think of the ill-fated Palestinian village called Janin, that Israel crushed into oblivion several years ago. I think the incumbent president's daughter has that name (with and additional 'n'). But, that's it. When a friend sent me several internet articles about recent events there, I was, quite frankly, flabbergasted. I was astonished to learn that today, in the first decade of the 21st century, in Jena High School, there is still a 'white tree', called that not because the leaves are white, but because it is a generous giver of shade, and only white students sit under it. In Sept. 2006, a young student named Kenneth Purvis asked the school principal for permission to sit under the 'white tree.' The principal answered that he could sit where he liked. So, they did. The next day, the 'white tree' was festooned with three nooses, in school colors. In the South (or the North, for that matter), nooses have one clear meaning -- they are threats of death. People naturally got riled up, angry, or scared. Jena's High School principal looked into the matter, found the three white students responsible, and recommended that they be expelled. The school superintendent felt otherwise, rescinded the expulsion, and instead recommended a 3 - day suspension. Speaking to the Chicago Tribune, the superintendent said, " Adolescents play pranks. I don't think it was a threat against anybody." (Perhaps he meant anybody important - or white). For Jena's Black community, this was but the latest slap in the face. Black students at the high school decided to resist by holding a sit-in under the 'white tree' to protest the light suspensions given to the 3 white noose-hangers. When word got out about the pending sit-in, the local DA came to a Jena school assembly, with several cops to threaten the students who dared to think they could do what people did some 40 years ago throughout the South (before the so-called 'New South'). He told them if they didn't stop making a fuss about this 'prank' he could be "your worst enemy." To make the point plain, he told the teen gathering, " I can take away your lives with a stroke of a pen." Several days later, a white Jena student, who reportedly made racist taunts, including calling Black students 'niggers', got knocked down, punched and kicked. The boy was taken to the hospital, treated and released. That very night, he was well enough to attend a public event. Within days six Black Jena students were arrested and charged with attempted second degree murder. All six were also immediately expelled. The 6 teens were given bails set from $70,000 to $139,000. Bail at these ranges could've just as easily been set at $1 million, for they were at rates that none of the local parents could afford. That meant, of course, that all of the accused were held in jail for months, awaiting trial. And if money for bail was out of reach, what about money for attorneys? Again -- out of the question. That meant that public defenders were appointed by the court. For one of the accused, Mychal Bell, this meant little better than no counsel at all, for his trial was soon decided by an all-white jury, who promptly convicted him of aggravated second degree assault, battery and conspiracy. Bell now awaits sentencing which may put the teenager in prison for the next 22 years. The public defender never challenged the all-white jury pool, put on no evidence, and didn't call a single defense witness. The law of aggravated assault requires the use of a deadly weapon. What was the weapon? Tennis shoes. Families and friends of the Jena 6 are organizing against this case, and are also being threatened by the local establishment. One woman told Louisiana ACLU member, Tory Pegram, "We have to convince more people to come rally with us.....What's the worse that could happen? They fire us from our jobs? We have the worst jobs in the town anyway. They burn a cross on our lawns or burn down my house? All of that has happened to us before. We have to keep speaking out to make sure it doesn't happen to us again, or our children will never be safe." To contact the Jena 6 Defense Committee, write: P.O. Box 2798 Jena, Louisiana 71342 Or on the web: jena6defense@gmail.com. (c) '07 maj (Less)

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