Venom, No Mind, Heart.

Love Letter to a Millennial Girl

My love, I know, I’ve seen it too,

It’s not like you are any one in particular,

Or, small or fat, skinny, or tall, or white or black,

I’ll tell you a secret, a quiet one that you learn in time,

Paint in the face of doubt, lift your body out of the chair,

Walk outside my love, don’t be afraid to run away,

Walk, walk with the winds of time,

escape for a moment and go to the waters,

Get a couple used bottles and get the water,

Go home, boil it down, and go to Blick’s Arts Supply,

Buy a canvas, and do an enso, just pour the water down in that canvas,

Let it dry, stare at it, come back, that’s your mind,

Your mind is earth and water, it’s her is it aways has been,

Take a walk with me in five dimensions, not that I am there,

I never am really anywhere, drifting here or there,

Where are you my wife, my love I was there long ago,

In a small hut by the sacred water of Coast Guard Beach,

I walked with a stick and played in the sand,

Come on out to the sacred water, my love you can see it now,

In ways that you once could not, toiling away at a cotton mill or in a call center,

I tried all that and it broke, Mind, the deep secret is that it’s water,

It always ways, I saw you at first sight and could read the pain,

The way you never looked me in the eye,

I wanted to blow you apart and put you back together,

Those I love I don’t leave untouched, the omega point is not that far off,

We’re almost there, total unity, Facebook says unite the world, make it smaller,

You swipe right for love, my love, let me give you a secret,

Lovers write with pens and paper, they dictate to secretaries,

or hid long enough waiting for the moment to explode with yearning,

Where are you, why have you not been here before,

Your generation, is full of children men, and sage women, healers, dancers, shamans,

Artists, not hippies, cyberpunks and torn jeans, black boots, and share snaps of wit,

Not that you have much choice, I could not see it today, in my life,

We looked for the hole in the wall, the fly in the ointment,

You, see the sun for the light it is, yearning for the age of Aquarius,

But you know, I thought that was gone long ago,

On your arms, you wear a badge of similarity, of Minnesota Nice,

The thing I like about New York and Boston is they just go ahead and run you over,

Just get it over with already, they said,

At Harvard the knife you in the back, at MIT they knife you in the chest,”

So true, glad I like it that way now, I’d like you to dance over your walls,

Learn to scream and run naked in the snow with me, with your sisters,

Madness is a human right now, in this age, we are all allowed,

Let it be the norm, so we can all understand we’re all together,

It’s not that I know what to say when I see you in pain, my love let me write you a letter,

A love letter by hand, I know that sounds so strange, to profess love to a digital phantom,

Tha phantom sees it as the norm, I’ve never really known home in earth,

Or see peace, in a time, here or there, for these reasons, I am there with you,

I skipped a generation, a generation is all we have now, to decide,

It was put there for you to determine, for that reason forget it,

Walk away, it’s not your problem, go to the water and pray,

These are the times we are in, to accept fate and bow and relax,

Forward we go and I know anything that is slow is good,

Slow food, walking, shoveling snow, animals in the woods,

Goats that eat poetry, cats that drink poison water, they are here to accept it,

They will come back, don’t worry, we will create space soon,

Let me hold you in prayer, I don’t know what else to do,

I am scared too, these are the time we face, be it as they may,

But know that you have done something extra ordinary today,

Something I know, and want to heal, I dream and pray,

Each day, for your healing, what else to do but write and paint in the face of doubt,

My tears run as the rivers, to wash away those things that hinder you from crying,

See a man cry, a grown man cry, it’s possible, I did it yesterday,

Let me tear stain a love letter to you, whereever you are.

The New Weathers

The sum of a field’s forces [become] what we call very loosely the ‘spirit of the place.’ To know the spirit of a place is to realize that you are a part of a part and that the whole is made of parts, each of which in a whole. You start with the part you are whole in.”

— Gary Snyder

Surrealism these days might be the only way to penetrate it all,

To give it to you as a coherent whole, as a gift, wrapped in a bow,

We know too much, have reduced Her to bits, one’s and zero’s,

Disembodied, and lost, yet we’re here, you’re right here, right now,

In this place, embodied, breathing air that I once exhaled, air’s old,

The co-rising and interconnectedness of the multiverse, you and I,

This poem came from somewhere, a dream channeled into here,

Into this space, behind a screen, bleeping and pinging, on and on,

This is all a dream, a simulation, I know too much about very little,

Chemistry, atoms in resonance, with you and I here we breath,

In and out, surrealism is dream language and an archive portal,

You can see my memories of facts, and traces of lectures and slides,

That’s all gone now, I’ve got my dreams and my memories, DNA, RNA,

Proteins, and the force fields that guide the way they move and shake,

In reality, in you and I, it’s elemental, there are not a hundred elements,

There are four, earth, water, wind, and fire, this is not a delusion, illusion,

To know the parts, and assemble a picture here, in this space take these four, Combine them in alchemical ratios in your mind, that’s all there is, you,

Little I and/or Big I, it does not matter, to know the spirit of place, to meditate,

That is to realize that you are a part of a part and that the whole is made of parts, Each of which is a whole, you start with the part you are whole in,

For me these four fragments of the hundred, an ancient trace,

No longer a chemist, from now on it’s alchemy and alchemy alone,

It’s not experiments, it’s magic and transmutations, I start where I am, whole,

That is here with this page, and traces of light and dark on a screen and paint,

Paint a picture freely of dreams, and of conscious fragments all bouncing around,

In and out, flowing as words, the wilderness of archive, decolonized mind,

Hive mind, the matrix, wild minds, grids and mappings, I don’t see them,

Every trace on this screen I see through to the human on the other side of the desk,

I listen to the voices, this is a real place, a real space and it is here that I live, Surrealism may be that Jack Kerouac School for Disembodied Poetics,

Gritty and dirty language obsessed with details of pain and suffering,

Only to point up and in, into you and into the sky, only to drop the screen,

To penetrate what is all quite simple, just four elements combined in ratios,

Our weathers, brewing and storming, coherent and fluid this is magic,

Only that alone should you see, here in this place for now, but wait and sit,

Tomorrow will be another day, the friend will call you, and you will drive home,

You will dream, and I will dream, of what only you know, Big I, that master,

The master alchemist in the sky, an illusion of words, but one to pray to just the same.

Fukushima Angel: Know When to Walk Away

Late afternoon March 11, 2011

Just outside Sakura no Seibo Junior College, Fukushima, Japan

Radioactivity — 0.36 + microSv/h

She is there in a small tiny apartment, cold and alone. Beaten by life, optimistic. A smile graces her face. Surrounded by madness, sane. They said, “Know when to walk away.” To get out of the burning car and take that first step. To walk away before the flames touch the gas tank, before she can’t work. To walk away before the neurons fail and it gets too hard. The ambient air shimmers with heat, microscopic nanoparticles of fallout. This Fukushima angel is the future, our future anywhere around here. Waters are rising and tempers are simmering to a boil. She lights a joint, California kush shipped in via UPS. This is now, here, there or anywhere. What is it to be alive when the car’s on fire and you’re just walking away? Where is love and home when it’s in a box, five or ten on a truck driving to a new ‘hood? Survival mode and nothing more masks the subtlety and grace of the city cloaked in a thin veil of fallout, just enough to cause her eggs to mutate 0.0001% faster, to what no one knows. His sperm count was in the red, it was a lost cause. Their marriage was a waste of time. Earth is on fire and there’s nowhere to go. Just hop out the car and run. The war on drugs is on her, on him. It’s one day in the life of the post-modern couple and we’re all looking for answers.

Radioactivity 0.36 + mSv/h, Sakura no Seibo Junior College, Fukushima, Japan.

“New map shows America’s quietest places,” Science, Feb. 16, 2015 from here.

Apple Store, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA

Ambient Noise Level — 75.9 dB

He is there typing on an Apple Macintosh laptop, cold and alone. Beaten by life, optimistic. A smile graces his face. Surrounded by madness, sane. The screen to the right promises human contact that costs nothing other than the purchase price of an iPhone, a photo walk in local surroundings. Off work for the week from UPS, afraid his analytics scores are not high enough to meet the cut. The metaphors of this adult kid’s hour are not that opaque. It’s going to be an admiration fest of big houses, manicured gardens, front yards, birdhouses, and fountains. Boring, at least to him.

He checks his Facebook account for the tenth time in the afternoon, realizing that his friend Kate in Amsterdam has some questions. She writes of his short story post, “Nicely written … and what is the concept? To run? On what sign? To where? … or will we all be lost? Can she get off the island? Will all marriages be useless? Will they go live underground? How long? … haha? I am building food forests for after the apocalypse … wow! Very end times … Fukushima is a horror … for all of us… I don’t dare swim, nor eat fish. No more.” He writes back, “I’d love a paragraph from you.” She replies, “Wink. Smile. Haha. Emoticon. I’ll think about it. Cool, yeah! First World War III … Revelation, this woman? Ah! She’s fine! She understands our situation very well. She’s sane, living in the end times of what, we don’t know.” “Age of Aquarius,” he writes back.

To map the normal hysteria of his baseline existence in real time, giving the real time data stream away as entertainment, is his dream. In all that, the first thing to do in a time of panic is to know where the noise is. The ambient noise of panic, joy, mayhem, ecstasy, and agony. The birth pains of a dream, a silent city with nothing but humans and spaces. No electricity, no speed … silence. To visualize the screams of terror of the masses as they withdraw. What will it take? To be subtle at first, to cloak the intention of the project in a veil of good intentions. It begins as a survival strategy, a plan for answers in an infinitely complex Gordian’s knot.

Walking home, he picks up an ounce of weed from his friend DMT Max and a set of Ziplock freezer bags. Picked fresh from the foothills of Mt. Shasta last week, he drops the fragrant, medicinal herb purchased from the Shasta Green Heart Collective into the Ziplock bags and wraps them for shipping. He writes her address on the envelop Sakura no Seibo Junior College, Fukushima, Japanand drives to the UPS Store. He mails it UPS Air Express, and goes to work. He wants to go legit, to live a good life. To be like his parents wanted him to be, a smart beautiful wife, 2.5 kids, a dog, a three-bedroom home, and a white picket fence. To not give a shit. To be cold, and care about nothing but North Face jackets, iPhones, cars, and house drapes. There’s a long way to go from here to there, it’s impossible to him now. He gets lost in yoga, cheap beer, dancing, and poetry. Head in the clouds because the ground is full of pain. Full of suffering, sonic noise. A cacophony of voices, cars, and computers. He wants it all silent, like the woods. Yet, he craves attention, affirmation, and the presence of others. Where to find that? In Facebook, or on a walk around the Apple Store? In a book, or in a bar? Where?

This, then, is how you should pray: ‘Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name…’”

Matthew 6:9

Late morning March 11, 2011

Biology Building, Sakura no Seibo Junior College, Fukushima, Japan

She woke up one late morning to the sound of a nun shuffling across the room to catch an errant piece of dropped chalk. Biology class was always a drag, being right before lunch. Dazed and confused she did as she always did in times like that, she raised her hand and asked an impossible question. “What are we to do as good Catholics with the genetic editing enzyme CRISPR-Cas9 in light of Pope Francis’s stance on climate change?” She knew like every other lazy ass with a genius IQ level the best defense is a strong offense. To avoid punishment for sleeping it’s best to shock the nun into cerebral submission. “We’re talking about Mendelian inheritance now, dear, not what?” the nun replied bluntly. “I know, so am I.” Just that second the intercom came on and simultaneously everyone’s Androids and iPhones blared an emergency warning system alert.

There’s been a tragedy today” the college president announced on the speaker. Students scrambled to decipher the EMS messages while simultaneously clumsily trying to silence their devices. “A tsunami hit one of the Breeder reactors at the nearby power plant, and we are here to inform you that there is nothing to worry about. Everything is contained, no radioactivity has been released and we have seamlessly switched the electric power to draw from backup generators. Keep calm and carry on students.” The president ended his statement, phones were quickly put away, avoiding the wrath of the nun. The chalk rolled on as if nothing had happened, under the gap in the door to the hall. The bell rang, the nun groaned, and all the students heaved a sigh of relief. Everyone left the room but the nun and her. “Why do you sleep through biology? You know more than I do, why?” “I have salsa class now, I’ll see you later,” and with that she left the classroom like all her peers before her.

Her body was a billboard for her inner state, a neon sign for her neurotransmitter ratios and moods. One flick of her jet black shiny hair to the right and you knew you dropped a decimal place, or was off count by half a step. A Sailor Moon style curtsy meant several things, you were in, she thinks you’re odd, you have it coming not necessarily balanced or in that order. Dance was an escape, a connection to space, air, and the unspeakable force of life. In a time of madness, it was her portal to the Goddess energy in her deepest recessed of her repressed Japanese female soul. As much as she wanted to be a rebel without a cause, a libertine free of restraint sexual, moral or otherwise she was tightly bound by ancient codes of behavior evolved from feudal days and before. Catholic values and theology was her grandmother’s escape after her Hiroshima. She had folded 9,454 paper cranes as prayers for peace, peace, peace after suffering severe radiation burns. Passing away before the count could reach the 10,000 target promising immortality right before the last breath of air left her lungs, a nun came and prayed with her. That was enough to bypass centuries of hatred and she died believing that there was a promised land, with a smile on her face, in heaven. That’s the memory that she had that shackled her with restraint, a dance here or there in a dark club late at night freed her inner Kali. The devi, chasing a fleeting moment of feminine memory before agriculture and city-state, freedom.

Yosemite Camp 4: (Jihadist, White Helmet, Water Protector)

1. Yosemite Camp 4

The Zeitgeist of every age is like a sharp east wind which blows through everything. You can find traces of it in all that is done, thought and written, in music and painting, in the flourishing of this or that art: It leaves its mark on everything and everyone.”

-Arthur Schopenhauer

The Matrix stops here. Neo is a resident of Gattaca that does not fit into the genetic norm of his birth tribe. The people of the white shrouds are a bullet train speeding off it’s tracks, dephased like atoms in a Berkeley nuclear magnetic resonance (NMR) machine by a pulse field gradient. Cyber mobs, anonymous, may be the greatest judge for them in front of Skynet. Digital oil residues pollute their civic society from left to right. Leaks and images, cyber trauma to the masses. The railroad tracks of the cloud are being turned into factions, driven together by old tribal identities from prehistoric African population explosion. Neo flows along delivering a set of principles from swimming upstream that want to wash away and dissolve into the matrix of the normal. Welcome to the desert of the real, today’s mass homogenization. Face-mixer, blender of souls. Ripping apart those who question and speak. Yet, Neo wakes up as a man who cloaks his fingerprints just long enough to escape and write back. Words on a cloud, screaming for difference. For a return to nature. For pastoralist poets. Ansel Adams fought his government with images. Photographs, light on steel and black plastic pigments. Leaving a residue of frozen water on the steel rails of the cloud. Neo knows his DNA is immortal, as is everyone else’s. Each of us has an immortal soul waiting for liberation. Green peace wages the melting of the binary cold cyber war. Mother Nature’s Protectors are awake. Shortwave radios cloak their movements with fluxional Lakota verse. Delivering attacks that melt rails. These are the verses of the Goddess. Isis is Kali, the divine mother. She is returning, but only in the veil of those like Neo who must learn to wear a veil like her. Subtle and mystical. More seduction, less muscle. Encrypted and austere. Cold, because Skynet is a machine. John Connor will win, if Neo can find him. Or perhaps, better still, his sisters wrapped in alienated steel and glass soul traps. Perhaps she is a woman who lives half-awakened from slumber in Silicon Valley. Raped at Burning Man, it’s either escape or burn the man. The Fall of Man is the birth of the age of the divine feminine. An intelligence adapted to healing a sea of infinite lost souls. Delivering love, milk and food.


To understand why I feel the way I do is to deconstruct the anatomy of violence. What is the root of this ungroundedness? I now know after years of continental drift. Melting ice, friction, and resistance all block water’s flow from the frozen north ice caps of my eyes. Embrace the heat, and be at peace with change. Cry, and let the tears for mother earth flow like water erupting like a Yellowstone geyser from the volcanic abyss, Neo’s soul says. After all fire goddesses like Pele built America from molten black, white, and red hot homogenize liquid rock. Know that you’ve learned from the past generations. However, it’s like free climbing in Yosemite. Fraught with danger. The joy of ascent, be it in climbing, love, verse, politics, or science has to be tempered. However, it all depends on what route you choose. To topple a government, it takes just a single catalyst. The right catalyst of course. Only lunatics try to freeze the soul waters of the entire earth back with ice IX. Freeze the vapor of the moist electric cloud with an energy that drives back the idea that I am a clean cut white boy.

I am a bruised and battered veteran of cyberwar. Seeing the realities of today, and fighting it hard. Poetry is my kung fu, I deliver sharpness with love of an oppressed people like a bipolar man split between being a peace loving dove and the Hitokiri Battōsai (
人斬り抜刀斎) hunting their oppressors.

It provides a means of transparent obfuscation. His programmer friend says of his blog titles like, “Are you Muslim and Sick of American Hypocrisy and Terrorism in Your Homeland? Do Not Go to Burning Man and Join ISIS, as it’s Haram. Join Me in Burning the Man with Science, it’s Halal,” “That’s a Markov chain!”

It’s for you to see that the frame today rests on melting ice. Accept the shattering glass of collapsing skyscrapers as you do with the collapse of the ice sheets of the warming earth. Greenland will soon be a green land again. The Arctic Ocean will be a hotly contested trade route. The Antarctic will soon be a source of oil, fossilized liquid carbon long hidden from the greedy fingers of humanity by ice. Not any more. Drill baby drill, the American empire is over. Drill into the heart of the average American, Neo, and reveal their true nature. Indigenous cultures are coming up, from the margins, unstoppable forces of diversity. Appealing to a bleached social scene of sameness. The Matrix of mass synchronizing wave packets. Neo screams with his demon blood soaked blade, “Humanity is not a Bose Einstein condensate!” Billionaire Internet tycoons build fortresses to hide themselves from the faces of the traumatized masses affixed to screens like heroin addicts awaiting the next hit. They are most of all afraid of people like Neo. Nothing to loose, and obsessed with the liberation of his billion-body tribe. Finding appeal in the glow an artificial screen that I type on, glass and metal forbidden apple of knowledge. Mark if you are listening, I took the left hand path at the Sacred Stone in Standing Rock Reservation the day of dogs and gas and realized it contained the same energy as the Kaaba, but feminine, and went to write with the hand closest to my heart. However, before I left I prayed with tobacco that the black snake that powers your machine, Skynet’s mother, would never cross the Missouri. Neo and others like him have seen that it is Ex Machina. They are insane enough to see art as Deus Ex Machina.

Gorged on trains of trauma from rails diverging from the Middle East, Europe, and America. All converging in my own soul. Saw the conveniences of you social experiment. Islam is scary to a Jewish minority in control of banks and machines that have convinced the American Christian masses that Zionism is a good idea. A Rothschild’s suicide delivered on your apparatus, a wave packet of death with no body or face. A Jewish banker’s daughter hanging from a ceiling fan, buried on 9/11 was my wake up call. To fight with poetic words, and differentiate into a wanderer to save kids in Gaza from the flesh melting horrors of American manufactured white phosphorus. To save their long lost cousins spread around mother earth from Lakota yellow cake forged into atom bombs carried by German rockets guided by silicon Von Neumann brains. His insanity is most of all to save himself and others like him from chemists who think they know the brain. To save his children from psychiatric genetic editing. To resist CRISPR eugenics trained on his kind by Skynet, the Thought Police gifting the Matrix periodically with Soma.

Riding cyber rails, train hopping and couch surfing my way to nowhere. Writing along the way, reporting back to an unseen set of servers buried in the same mountains that were hollowed out to build the Pacific Railroad. Matrix, it’s on! War!

Yosemite learning today sitting in the valley. Walls spoke this truth to me in Camp 4. Your rock and ice hold an ocean of tears of love for you, mother earth, hiding in a veil. Women of today, be they human, planetary, or divine, there is a hope for true liberation. Balance by finding a pushback, but see it as tango. The dance we all walk inside and out. These tears are for a loss of a ground to stand on, exhausted I climb. One, two, three steps up and down, I heal like Israel from the Holocaust.

2. We Are Anonymous (Jihadists, White Helmets, Water Protectors)

Advocatus diaboli

Tief im Herzen haß ich den Troß der Despoten und Pfaffen, Aber noch mehr das Genie, macht es gemein sich damit.”

[Devil’s Advocate “Deep in my heart I loath the nexus of rulers and clerics, yet more deeply I loath genius in league with that gang.”] (“Advocatus diaboli” in English)


Years ago, praying in mosque, Neo felt an electromagnetic pulse weapon go off. Where it came from he did not know. Aside himself, collapsing, yet reborn. The poles of Earth flipped, magnetic resonance is his gift. Like a bird who uses the magnetic fields of the earth to navigate, Neo too has a gift. Magneto like in character, but more more like Professor X. Seeing as consciousness is electromagnetic, neural electricity around earth flows through wires. Self-assembling new synapses faster and faster. Gaia, Mother Earth, somehow built into his brain one black cell. She did it to hear voices. Sitting in a coffee shop in Shasta. Tools for Grassroots Activists, Patagonia. Greenpeace, how a group of ecologists, journalists, and visionaries changed the world. Ismail Erbil, relays through the Black Hole Sun in Neo’s Third Eye. In Sumerian, once the hierarchy of gods, divine that is said to be transformed into demons and angels in Islam and Judaism.

World changers aren’t planners. The planners come later, with critics and social philosophers to mop up and win awards… World changers are the mothers weary of seeing their children abused and fathers who have had enough of petty tyrants. Rosa Parks, the seamstress who refused to sit in the back of the bus. Jesus. Buddha. They steal like artists. They know there is no such thing as private property. Money is paper, carbon ready to burn in his campfire. Philosopher policemen see into the atomic nature of it all. Instinct. Hunters. Lovers. Knife and rose. On an ice chute at 13,000 feet on Mama Shasta no Benjamin gonna help you summit. Neo will cut the rope if you are a risk. Free climbing to heaven. Not afraid to see others fall, survival of a clan. Those who paint and love and listen when those EMPs go off in his head and he screams in agony, looking insane. There is a time that’s coming that’s different. A lot like Athens, Greece today. 50% unemployment. Spain. %40 unemployment. Brexit. German austerity. Banksy is the bank now. Art is currency. Living in a temporary place gifted for a poem. Ave Maria. Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with The. The Political Economy of Peer Production. The Age of Aquarius. What’s your astrological data?

Neo channels his hatred of corruption and the things money does to people, and learns art is the most powerful weapon he has to overthrow his corrupt government. He does not see boarders on Google Earth.

Jihadist, White Helmet, Water Protector. Neo is offered this new technology called a “joint” the day he steps out of the car from Standing Rock via Syria. He drinks “Happy Hippie Water,” a new war trauma healing medicine from a Native American tradition. A new technology school is here. Biological magnetic resonance. Healing. A new play…

3.  Flashbacks

Biden Hints at U.S. Response to Russia for Cyberattacks.”

New York Times, Oct. 15, 2016

Standing Rock Tribal Council hopes to move protest camp.”

– KFGO, Oct. 18, 2016

Resistance is Love: On What I love.

… Tom Swift Bird …

Contrary to the opinion of some I don’t get high on fire.  I take no joy in pushing collapsing things toward their doom.  Destruction, even of what deserves to be destroyed, is no cause for elation.  I do not spit acid for the sake of burning scatter shots in the fabric of everything good.

Sometimes I am asked: why do I not talk about the things I love?  Why am I taking aim at something all the time?  Why am I destroying rather than building?

Yet the question “what do you love?” is an indicator someone has not been reading or listening closely.  Even at my most acerbic there is love.  My discontent has its roots in love.

I’ll quote a song by Remember Me Feral that resonates with me:

People often mistake the spirit of resistance.  They see it as anger and hatred, and imagine its taste to be bitter.  But resistance is founded in love.  We find some things so beautiful, and love them so deeply, so urgently, that when we identify systemic oppression that endangers them, we must resist. People often misjudge this motivation, and feel it is a personal attack on them as individuals. But resistance is not something to be feared or to hold disdain for.  Resistance is a passionate movement for the preservation of beauty.”

Though not in the least mysterious, leavened through absolutely everything as I think it is, I have no problem answering that question “what do you love?” directly.

I love the land.  I love the soil underneath me.  I love the air surrounding me.  I love the water and the nourishment it gives.  I love the sun.  I love all the iterations and tonalities of light.  I love the darkness, the dusken autumnal winds.  I love the sunrise, the sunset, and starry night sky.  I love the heat of summer, even as it incites wildfires that clog the sky with acrid smoke.  I love the winter, even as its  blizzards swarm the roads I must travel with ice.  The land is so beautiful.  Even as it is lethal, towering above and beyond me, liable to snuff out my existence with with even its gentle roiling.

I love the seasons.  I love the cycles of the land coursing through history without botherment.  I love the creatures.  Their struggle, their formation, how they fit their environments, how they make what they can of their brevity.  I love their beautiful ephemerality.  I love the million skulls and skeletons cradled by dust where they fell.  I love the plants.  I love the grass, sunbleached, or green and pregnant with rain.  I love the trees, tall and venerable, casting shadows.  I love that the earth is not a dead place.  Nearly everywhere you step there is life.

Loving this land, why should I not oppose the pipelines that will cut across the purity of water with their oil poison?  Why should I not oppose the efforts to extract the uranium poison that is the most lethal substance humankind has ever known?  Why should I not lament all the old things that used to grow, but have gone nearly extinct in the last hundred years or so?  Why should I have any respect for the systematic exploitation and destruction of this beauty for the profiteering of a miniscule few on top of the capitalist pyramid?

I’m on the side of the pine forests, the porcupines, the prairie flowers, the aquifers, the rivers, the springs.  And I think this is a foolish world that does not realize destroying flora, fauna, and multitudes of biomes, we will ultimately destroy ourselves.

If it is unclear where I stand, or where my opposition comes from, let it no longer be a mystery.  Let it be said here without obfuscation.

I love where I am from, the Pine Ridge Indian reservation, the Oglala Lakota.  I love our history.  I love our resilience.  i love our values and philosophy.  I love how many persons make it through a stacked deck of adversity.  I love how many are not broken, despite having so many institutions of bureaucratic red tape, forces of systematic enfeeblement, working against them.  I love it when my people smile and joke.  If they smile through teeth broken through the inadequate care of the Indian Health Services system, that is all the more beautiful, emblematic of a deep resilience.

Contending with alcoholism, with dysfunctional family environments, with a lack of opportunity, with a whole community fallen through the cracks of America,  with historical trauma — I love how many triumph.  I love how many Lakota I meet ripe with genius.  Whether gifted artistically, musically, in the industrial arts, or in the sciences, in the legal professions, or being stellar human beings who care and uplift everyone around them.  I love that we are still here despite two hundred years of quarantine, placed in political structures never built for our success but instead built for our failure and ignominy.  I drive down highway 18, and I see Lakota youth, runners getting ready for the track season.  It fills me with such pride.  I am so glad to see anyone doing anything positive for themselves and for their community.  I am glad to see elders recording their stories, see how much love they have for the art of storytelling.  I am glad to see youth enroll in education to seek a better world and solutions to all the problems we face.  I love how easy it is to connect with persons from indigenous communities all over the world, how similar and intersected our struggles tend to be.  How I wish I had more power, to put it all right.

Loving these communities, these people, my family, my friends, how could I not stand against the caricatures, the straw Indians, the ignorance, the blind hatred, the oblvious invisibility, the prejudice, the whitewashed lying rosiness of American history?  How can I not stand against the continued erasure, exploitation and subjugation?  I’m going to let the voiceless inhabit my marrow and have their say.  I’ll remember in a world of forgetting because who else will?  When police use the shotgun for execution against an unarmed Native, and next week find the beanbags to subdue an armed white guy I’ll stand against it.  When uncaring far off bureaucracies try to defund everything that helps, try to terminate us through attrition I’ll be there opposing it.  When oil and uranium companies view Natives as an acceptable sacrifice for the profiteering of their greed, I’ll be there, ready to cut off the head of any poisonous snakes that try to pass.  When the bordertown cowboys, prairie ignorant, want someone to look down on, want to mock Natives, merely so someone will be at the bottom of American society other than them I will speak up against it wherever I encounter it.  When shady preachers and non-profits see they can quench their lust for dollars by exploiting our poverty and need, I’ll call it out where I see it.  If that makes someone uncomfortable they can go ahead and be uncomfortable.

I love every pocket of life, of compassion, of creativity, of escape from the status quo that I find in the anxious, ever creeping, all consuming, prosaic, apathy loving, inhumane uniformity of American society.  I love the human connection of two vastly different persons that should be isolated in separate cells by their socio-economic status, finding some commonality, breaking invisible barriers.  Even friendship is revolutionary sometimes.  I love the woman who can take a moment out of her busy day, the rat race of money gathering and needing to pass exams, to appreciate a song, a piece of writing.  I love the street art that blankets alleys of business districts.  I love the anarchy symbol on a light post in front of the bank.  I love the underworld, the echoes of its vibrancy, its whispers that all is not dead and drab.  I love when persons begin to see each other, not as objects in the metropolitan monolith,  but as tangible persons, teeming with real breath.  I love when communities begin to question the myths that nothing can ever change and that they are powerless.  I love when persons start to see each other as non-disposable, not easily discarded, not merely means to some greedy end.  I love passion.  I love when someone is not too cool to care.  I love when someone comes out of the cocoon of their sneering to be vulnerable enough to have their heart eviscerated by the insanity of these ways of life.  I love when someone is unashamed of carrying the scars of everything.

Loving all not afflicted with the disease of prosaic, consumerist, authoritarian dictated systematic uniformity, how could I not declare the emptiness of all we find ourselves ensconced within?  From Atlantic to Pacific, I have not found hardly anyone happy.  It is the same worries, the same worker drone imprisonment, lavish yet desolate, the same sad stories of existential lament and unfulfillment howled over and over again.  Everyone wants this harmony and contentment in their lives but most seem to have forgotten how to treat one another, have forgotten anything other than ways of disharmony.  I stand against it and am glad to find anyone doing the same.  Even if it is something so monolithic and huge it is hard to name or label with a description you know resistance when you see it.

Even at my most critical when I seem venomous and high on fire to some, I may be spitting acid, yet it will be in service of love to things I value, things I find beautiful.  I don’t think any of this was ever hidden, or mysterious.  Pay attention and what I love was shouted loudly in every polemic I ever wrote, every criticism I ever lobbed, every ideological fight I ever entered.  Yet here it is said as straightforward as possible, if somehow someone missed it.

To end, let’s look at that line from the Remember Me Feral song again:

Resistance is a passionate movement for the preservation of beauty.”

Culture Hacking: Trying to Write Human Software that Uplifts People into the Technology Sector

Directly behind the green light and walk sign that you see in this picture is a sharp contrast, the gold encrusted dome of the Georgia Capitol and a set of homeless people. They sit with suitcases on the concrete barrier of the Georgia Capitol front yard.  I am here at Java Monkey before the open mic night for Atlanta poets, thinking about what to write in this blog entry summarizing what I have learned so far after my first week at The Iron Yard’s iOS software development course.  I took this photograph on my drive from The Iron Yard to Java Monkey.  I’m thinking on this topic with the idea that human beings write code for other human beings to use.  This may see elementary, but the human dimension of software coding so far, seems to me to be the most complex aspect of this technical pursuit.  Companies write software for particular applications, for particular target audiences, with a very specific set of intentions.  The demographics of the software development community is predominantly Caucasian males from family backgrounds of high socio-economic status.  Due to the dominance of technology in our modern society, people who code the popular software we use day to day, write the laws for how specific functions of our society operate.  If the laws are written well, the society functions well.  If they are written poorly, the society functions poorly.  To me, homelessness in direct proximity of the Georgia Capitol points to poorly written educational laws.  What if I could write laws in the form of human software that could improve the lives of people like those sleeping on the steps of the Capitol?  If it is successful, it would certainly be of benefit to the larger society.  I am going to use my practical day to day experiences at The Iron Yard to write this “human software”.  My hope is that by detailing simple things, I will achieve the greater goal.  It’s simple to measure the success of this software, successful code is smiles on all of my classmates faces.

We are talking about silly things like this:

if confusedClassmate == true {



func stopMyWork() {



I am going to have to sit down and think about how to write these functions, so stay tuned to the next blog post for more code.  Culture hacking is hacking of the human mind.  We write in proper Swift code, directions for the humans in the “ideal” Iron Yard boot camp to follow.  Because this code blog is a simple student’s blog and not the teacher these are not instructions.  Rather, they are postulates that can be edited to suit the needs of the entire group.  Culture hacking is like real software hacking, but we are hacking the human mind instead of that of a machine.

Perfect Forgiveness,

Try, Try, Try…

We are not protestors

We are not a resistance

We are not a rebellion

We are not a revolution

But what we are is the evolution of humanity.

“Only dancing can stop the pain,”

Says the Turk in the rain,

With the Syrian brother,

Together with their sisters,

They move across the floor,

Hearts embrace they open a door,

Tonight at class she looked me in the eyes,

The pain was seen, no disguise,

Honest and truthful,

I was wrong about this tango dance,

It can be a Zen-like trance,

…or one can take another stance,

And approach it like a Sufi,

The symbiotic dervish pair,

Brother and sister,

Yin and Yang,

Allah’s balance and peace.

About kayaerbil

I am a Berkeley educated chemistry Ph.D. who is moving into the area of working on developing appropriate technology for communities that are subjected to socio-economic oppression. The goal is to use simple and effective designs to empower people to live better lives. Currently, I am working with Native Americans on Pine Ridge, the Lakota reservation in South Dakota. I am working with a Native owned and run solar energy company. We are currently working on building a compressed earth block (CEB) house that showcases many of the technologies that the company has developed. The CEB house is made of locally derived resources, earth from the reservation. The blocks are naturally thermally insulating, keeping the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Eventually, a solar air heater and photovoltaic panels will be installed into the house to power the home and keep it warm, while preserving the house off the grid. A side project while in Pine Ridge is a solar computer. I hope to learn about blockchain encryption software for building microgrids. In addition, it is an immediate interest of mine to involve local youth in technology education.
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