Monday, June 4, 2018

Tipping Point

knee deep in our democracy
have we reached critical mass
that the weight of souls crossed over
tip the scales on behalf of the love
the creative
a tipping point heavyweight spirit migration
do they look back or only gather
playing writing drawing singing
hands off
the machinations of the living

for how long
without intervention from the stars
diamond dust of universe scattered
cross the cosmos
critical mass

Fame monster corporations
like psychopaths
wreaking havoc because they can
wreaking death of tomorrow
in the toxic remnants of what we’re allowed
heaven scented hell

after our walk there were no babies left
sandpaper father
dead man’s shoes
kali yuga dark age
a band of poets creating insistent pockets of Light
in the encroaching
standing shadowless like silence
like Ouroboros consumes itself

angry shores
so much hate
it crawled around the edges of their hearts
gripped tight
manifest destiny manifest aggression
terrorized with information
they got into bed with death
despised and mocked of history
they can’t escape themselves
the monster shouters
who tell us to create more dead
for their delectation
making children afraid of a blue sky

my Name is Resistance

© 2018 pamela twining


Monday, April 9, 2018

The Lucky One

                                                                                      for Artie & Lucinda

his eyes always saw so much farther
than my dreams for him could see
the seeds of his going born into the small body
that slipped so sweetly and humbly into my book of days

we gave each other Life
i, him, beyond his time and he, my open heart
i was his tree
and he my baby-child
he was my teacher in the short days
of our Awakening together
and sweeter lessons never learned by me

no doubt no release from pain
the loss of his eyes and his breath and his little ways
heart shattered like glass
              how will the pieces ever be gathered together?

cry in the cab of the truck with the radio cranked
Scream! let it go let it go let it go!
at least as far as the damn tether will Let it go
             soul tethered by an unbearable Love
             in the wind of a planet gone mad

my arms hold the slight weight of him
only glamoured on earth for awhile
and memories drown me
a rip from the gut a screaming meemie of a crazy moment
and tears are washing in the middle of traffic
               no release just adequate disguise
               in the rain in the pouring rain

the blade of memory cuts deeply
the almost-sadness
colouring my days for all time
                in mind’s eye he is curled
                next to my pillow humming
                his ancient songs into my ear

© 2018 pamela twining

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Skin in the Game


sensitive skin/ skin deep/ thin skin/ the skinny
gimme some skin/ thick skin/ skin to skin
chicken skin/ skin me/ skint/
skin game
skin broken pus exploding from an infected boil
the sanctioned killings
will the release relieve US or destroy?

death cult cannibals feigning moderation
head chopping amphetamine-fed barbaric terrorist proxies
black snake dance of the cannibal giant
we dreamed you into being
who has looked into your eyes?
we are a land of orphans
eyes like windows into a place you didn’t want to go
democracy apocalypse ecstasy pie
no one remembers the ecstasy only the pie

a favorite image
Herbert Huncke cozmik junkie leaning into the smoke
inhale deep/ get naked/ city lights/ street lights
renegade boots/ double exposure/ gas light café
god light café
poetry reading tonight
dead dead dead all dead
the gone deathmongers whose only concern is moment
have no skin in the game
only nightmares

the poets are revolting
renegade boots, cigarette ash dangling
how long how long
burn down, don’t drop
poems like smoke curl out float upward
in sinuous shapes disperse breathed in
secondhand smoke
it’s a killer

Saturday, March 24, 2018


War has become background noise
the ambient soundtrack of the times
illegal consciousness
the weaponization of religion
“the soft bigotry of low expectations”

life in the ether Between
where we die and are eaten by images
a gulag of the poor the black the brown
no rich are invited
to starve in metal cages, containers of misery

building monuments
will always be seen as oppression
 as times change
monuments are for the "winners"
               assuming "losers"
a world view Triumphant
another subdued
dynasties lost
and Peoples enslaved
the Other in chains
of poverty rapine and destruction
for generations entrapped
in the dominant story

a Just society would need no monuments
its glory reflected in the faces
of a People Unbound
not rendered in Stone but in Flesh
and in Spirit

wakinyan, voices of Thunder
the song of the Storm
jagged Light opens us
treat every poisoned word as a promise
Resistance is in the blood