We Interrupt This Message



"the problem with these people is their cities have never been bombed and their mothers never told them to shut up."

charles bukowski, the inimitable, uncompromising saint of selfish alcoholic poets.



Welcome back to the home front Will Hewitt. Thanks for all the good work. Please come and grace our humble home whenever you make it back to this coastline.



A continuing e-mail list
of free poetry and prose illustrating the humanity of the situation and
news of the world direct from the eyes and ears of a wandering bard who
has been there, or whatever.



Ahkmed and I are sitting on the bed with the fuzzy synthetic fiber
blankets that maybe have big pictures of teddy bears on them, that or big
kitsch roses and curvilinear decorative designs with curlicues and
what-have-you. He is telling me a story from an Egyptian film; it goes
something like this:

Two brothers want to go to America-- Amreeka in Arabic-- but they can't
get the visas and papers so the government won't let them in. So they go
to Mexico and try to sneak across the border. But they are arrested by the
border cops. As the cops take them away, they start to sing:


I ask him, what does 'Sheeka Beeka' mean?

He says it doesn't mean anything. Just made-up nothing words. . . but sung
to the right tune, by two Arab brothers being arrested while illegally
crossing the U.S./ Mexican border, it means-- impossible faraway dream
reflected in the glitz of a shopping mall window display, denied.

Why were they going to America? They had a cousin working on a master's
degree in engineering at a university in Minnesota. . . They had an uncle
who owned a barber shop in New York City. . . They wanted good jobs, they
wanted to study, the watched too many Hollywood movies. . .


And the border cops close in with their guns and cuffs and vans with the
blue lights on top and doors that lock from the outside, and the land of
easy money and cinema glitz and freedom of marriage fades into a Texas
sunset. . . denied.

* * *

I tell you there be angels here.

They ride a visionary wind
from a place beyond all suffering
and glide through sunset skies painted brilliant shades
of orange, violet, red, pink, gold!

They drift on glittering wings,
their eyes like soft rain;
they are immune to cold, bullets, and human cruelty,
need not show ID to surly teenage soldiers at checkpoints
or submit to body searches at the cloth-gloved hands
of hired guards at Erez Crossing
or fledgling cops consigned to the lower echelons
of Ben Gurion airport security--

Angels, my dear
I tell you there be angels here
they hold no nationality or political affiliation
and fly free above religious partisans of all denominations
and if you close your eyes and call
they will lend you beams of moonlight and evening sun
to guide your way, even now
when everything you thought was good
has been crushed beneath an army boot
or torn apart in a fight between friends.

* * *


sits with his face in a bucket of cheap beer
in plain clothes lust like anyone
his clown suit packed away in a duffel bag
gazing afar
contemplating what has come to pass
and what is yet to be. . .

and as he rolls into another town
he sings this song off-key:

What goes on, what goes down, what's up,
where I been, where I be going, and what to do?

New Orleans, New Orleans,
what do you have for a wandering child?
Hurricane came, wrecked your homes
levies broke, flooded your streets
most of your people still gone away
I blew down on the wandering wind

here I come looking for food
here I come looking for work
here I come looking for love
here I come looking for a home
and so

New Orleans, New Orleans,
what do you have for a wandering child?

* * *

by your accomplishments
by how you improved yourself
by how hard you worked
by what you got done
by how far you went
down that road to enlightenment.

by how popular you were
by how many people loved you
by your position in society
by how little you sinned
by how good you are
or how good you been.

by your skill
by your smarts
by your health
by your beauty
by your success
by your knowledge
by your money
by your wisdom
by your mama
or by how many gold stars
you got in kindergarten.

and found lacking
or punished
or given awards or medals--
not in the end,
not by GOD,
not by me,
nor by anyone who matters.

That's it.


Stayed in Portland last night with Carly and Kevin. Good to see old faces with fresh eyes. How easily we forget those yesterdays that mean(t) so much. Arrived early and taught myself how to drive around Portland, not a bad skill to have if I'm gonna be there with the girls for 10 days next month (see Ecovillage Conference). Found a beautiful little book called Rebel Bookseller that just came out this year and was sitting unobtrusively on a little shelf inside CounterMedia kitty-corner from Powell's books. Ran into Meilani over by the 'zine rack at Powell's. She's such a badass. Gave me a few copies of her new 'zine which Steph is in to distro. Eating well so far: Burgerville on the way down, burritos and whiskey and cokes upon arrival, nice solid Hawthorne style snack before we hit the road Tuesday morning. Lyli and Scarleht were amazingly well behaved in the car. We jumped off I-84 for a smidge and coasted along the old highway 30 (historic columbia river hwy) stopped at the top and leaned over the edge with the girls in my arms. They laughed and screamed and pointed at the world down below. On the way down a large hawk glided right beside us for several yards. Scarleht's eyes got the size of dinner platters and when I asked if she saw the big bird she said "uh-huh" in a dazed tone of voice.
We all miss Steph already, with 6 days of this adventure left to go... more to follow when it isn't 5 a.m.


up at six am with girls
to work on wood for 2 1/2 hours with an 86 year old man with bad knees and a pacemaker who puts me to shame with his timeless sweat and tireless chainsaw
lifting over the course of the day two or three tons worth of wood and books and babes late afternoon i collapse for a quick scattered slip of shut-eye

tomorrow to portland and then walla walla with my angels for a week with grandpa and grandma and more books and the dry eastern dusts and my old cabin and perhaps a little huffstodt thrown in

"throw your hands up if you've ever been in handcuffs
hands up if you depend on public transit"
- Saints of Everyday Failures
from their new album The State of the Art is Failure

keep rockin' olympia guys, that cd release show was the shit! catch ya on the flip-side goonie.
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