thudding and tearing like footsteps
of drunk gods or fathers; it comes
polite, loutish, assured, suave,
breathing through its mouth
Despite court losses, public antipathy, ridicule, a shutdown they ignore, the nascent police state lurches on with its daft apocalyptic narrative of an America in flames.
Rutgers University History Professor Mark Bray shares why he and his family fled the U.S. over safety concerns amid the Trump administration’s broad attacks on Antifa.
Inspired by the spirit of the Greatest Generation who fought fascism in World War II, this song celebrates love over hate, peace over violence, and liberty over authoritarianism.
One story is about the farmer
who just started running
right into the black mass
Suppose tomorrow, bright and early, we took a trip
to my hills. We could stroll through the vineyards and, maybe,
meet with a couple of girls, dark brown, ripened by the sun,
we could start a conversation and sample some of their grapes.
Two months ago, the United States made the Human Rights Watch list for the first time; rights advocates cited a nation “sliding deeper into the quicksands of authoritarianism” with peaceful protests met with military force, critics treated as criminals, journalists targeted, and support slashed for civil society.
Although history will have the final word on who among us is read by future generations, I’ll put my money on Baron. His writing represents the best of the American spirit.
I’m trying to be a good teacher, listening carefully to my students so I can make the ten-thousand micro-adjustments in what I’m presenting to them so they will feel how much I really want them to learn.
Sungolds, coughed my old neighbor, a bird
shat the seed.
Control the curriculum and you control the range of ideas that people are exposed to. This is why schooling is inherently political.
a silence in which you hear
in the midst of the noise all around you
a voice that speaks inside the ear
inside your ear that depends
on silence for writing it down
Her name is Malui and she is walking through a cloud of butterflies she’s disturbed.
Sometimes, the illness of our world, the death-in-life that turns nature into nothing more than the source of raw material, seems so boundless that throwing the lasso of language on it seems impossible.