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little Lynndie England

flaunting her body

John Chivington

Corporal Charles Graner

stacking Iraqis


Governor John Evans ordered


Don Rumsfeld

corpse in the bag


sand in the mouth

Mt. Evans

Bush Library


tiny skulls

litter the field

Last night (AKA the eve of Bubbles’ birthday), the DC Guerrilla Poetry Insurgency visited Coffy Cafe in Columbia Heights to share a two hour poetry set.

Around 20 people rolled through, along with 7-8 poets. Regulars Damian, Jessica, and Shahid hit the mic, alongside new friends Flavia, Charles Reese, Inkblot, and Michelle (who graced us with her first public poetry reading ever!).

It was our first indoor lyrical ambush at a new location, and it was especially wonderful to welcome participants of all ages. One entire family joined us, which hasn’t happened in awhile….


  • Michelle spoke of how we’re judged not by how we love, but by our possessions
  • Flavia shared water music flowing through her heart, revealing itself as the most essential form of art…. “All waters are One, and so are we, descending from the mountaintops down to the sea.”
  • Inkblot depicted a gluttonous debt and a painful birth to anticipation; remixed Hollywood; offered the chance to lift each other up, rather than bow to fill our own greed; and explored the genders as yin & yang.
  • Shahid shared a rhyming history of the FBI; examined CIA torture under the Bush administration; asked “What do you work towards in this world?”; mourned that “Justice is hard to find in this world”; and hyped the benefits of “reality rather than TV.”
  • Jessica asked an amorphous beast, “How do I love thee?,” before counting the ways; observed that her turkey sandwich had gone missing (to the tune of a Michael Jackson song); and quested after a purpose.
  • Damian planted a flag as the future of his history and observed holding twice the information with a third the education; has “a peace of peace, and dammit, is gonna keep it”; promised that if “You know this smirk, you’ll love this smile”; whined & bragged; and noted that con men and Congressmen all end up convicts.

Catch us next month, at Bossa in Adams-Morgan on Tuesday March 19, with the Akoma Drummers, and again on Wednesday March 27 back at Coffy Cafe in Columbia Heights!

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of watching Phenomejon (AKA Jonathan Tucker) welcome his first political arrest, in a hearing in the Senate Intelligence Committee on the nomination of John Brennan (AKA the executioner) to head the CIA. While the chair of the committee closed the hearing to the public before I had a chance to interject, Jonathan proudly raised his voice.

Here’s what I’d prepared to say, in a loud enough voice that would have captured the C-SPAN cameras:

Torture and extrajudicial assassination
make a rogue state of our once great nation.
We cite China to show freedom denied,
but drones and torture undermine our national pride.

Collateral damage? How broad? Who knows?
America wants more war, and it shows:
allegations of abuse, unanswered, grow and grow,
turning hearts & minds abroad into our newest round of foes

Welcome to the Terrordrome: Gitmo, Bagram.
The President changed, but the abuses go on.
You must reject John Brennan’s nomination
to satisfy your oath to defend the Constitution.

See you at the February GPI open mics, on Tuesday Feburary 19 at Bossa Bistro with the Akoma Drummers, and Wednesday February 27 at the Coffy Cafe in Columbia Heights!

Dirty Fucking Hippies

(this lines up well around 90 bpm….)

I had a great weekend in the People’s Republic
everything one could possibly ask for, on a stick:
connections en masse, with an entire class,
folks who — when they talk — I feel like I’m at a mass.

The space is sacred. The vibration we’re making.
makes me pause, examine myself, and stop fakin’.
They’re breaking all my shallow preconceptions
encountering a whole box of human confections

intellections…and other mental infections.
I dance my ass off: kinesthetic inflections.
We’re all reflections of the Universe’s corrections,
our directions in concert, aligned, perfection

Friends, mentors, allies, we comprise
the microcosms of how our society will rise
we’re all yeast in the bread, variety, more kinds
stronger together than alone: oops, pow surprise!

My host, a guide of the golden sort, the most
erudite of my professional cohort
a luminary in my legal seminary
we’re canaries singing as the sun joins the fairies

a mentor for a decade acquaintance maintenance
and then, in a single weekend, changing it.
Late night life chats on the porch, crack a joke,
light a torch, have a smoke, tell a story ’bout folks:

heroes whom he knows, history I be told.
The word be spoken to my wide open lobes
wisdom insight guidance and experience
and now friendship across generation: delirious


For the first time in ages I lose my breathe
every time she looks in my direction. It’s a left
uppercut to the chin. I’m windmilling and then
she’s there…like a wave, lifting up my fins

Her energy a wind, a tornado, a tsunami.
She makes my insides feel tied, like origami.
I’m salami…on toast and cheese
any chance to be devoured by her, I’d say please

Constant transcendental conversation
about transformation and inspiration
elevation meditation versus hastin’
If I were a college, I’d want her accreditation

She’s amazin’ — straight up fell outta the sky.
I don’t understand how we share so much or why
we’ve never met before. I’m off my feet, on the floor.
I want more…but we’re walking through separate doors.


The poetry insurgency’s March 2011 lyrical ambush was intense, starting with all of two poets and ballooning over the course of two short hours into over ten. This Tuesday:

  • Brenda pretended that it never happened, reminding us now crashing cruel reality comes and a wounded heart makes the hand mean.
  • Damian uncharacteristically confessed that he is confused, and also feeling pleasant and conversational, before channeling MC Lyte.
  • Sarah shared Alix Olson’s ode to the Lower East Side, and also noted that Focus on the Family’s headquarters has its own ZIP code.
  • Jazmin visited us from New York, and suggested that woman awake, arise, stand up on her perfectly unbound feet, as we have lost the Earth staying on our knees.
  • Lenny envisioned the revolution as cream cheese frosting, and reminded kings and queens and dictators that their time is served.
  • Rabia spoke of the Mtagne d’Oro.
  • Jeff reminded us that despite having just one planet where we live, we’re all split, and also exhorted us to before the battle better strategize.
  • Monique suggested that she is alone.
  • I speculated that Lyndi might be from Italy, and shared a tale of spending a night in less than ideal circumstances in central Manhattan.
  • Alicia said that you have to give it back.
  • Lyndi called a spade a spade, and decried justice denied and delayed.
  • Amy, channeling Alix Olson, recalled that we’ve learned to scream until our throats throbbed.
  • Ted noted that Rosa Parks and Hellen Keller are mentioned but minimalized, because history is militarized.

Come back out to Bossa to join us next time, on April 12!

There is a conscious counterculture kickin’ in the Capital
Back east in DC, the community’s rockin,
Non-stoppin’, the underground family’s poppin’
bee-boppin’ to the rhythm of a go-go beat

Kickin’ music and revolution out in the street
Rhythm Workers bangin’ out a beat in time
Guerilla poets wagin’ a lyrical struggle in rhyme
Belmontia risin, Batala boomin

DC51 son! We be swoonin’
Enraptured by individual visions
Minds uncaptured by institutional incisions
Every single soul human nuclear fission

My man C-Max produces artwork in stacks
Original paintings, graphic design
Direct action organizer most of the time
A funky fresh handsome fly Argentine
He rocks a new school mullet and feels just fine

Little Moo is my brother from another mother
A little belly tickling always makes him shudder
When it’s time for an escapade, he’s done for another
Renaissance man, socialite, Brasiliera lover

Little LSB is our pet love bug
she’s always spotted hefting a massive-sized mug
Giving out to everyone the most amazing hugs
Of all things I’ve encountered an excellent judge

And then Mooper Cheekrabubblereggaenameen
Met each other the first time in a dreamy scene
Used to do her best to destroy her spleen
But always willing to switch to Al Green

Sweet-T was once a mousy computer guy
Always cooked a mean meal, but learned how to fly
After picking up the mic and telling “the Man” to die
Photographer extraordinaire with a morning high

Special K knows the way to make the beat go boom
Let her into any space, and she’ll conquer the room
She’ll croon, dance a jig and then, real soon,
You can watch every brother (and half the sisters) start to swoon

Little Vishy has cheeks I’d call squishy
He drops funky beats on both decks and drums
W always have fun, kicked it in the sun
On extended trips, we touch each other’s bums

Daddy Fadi is the warmest clown you’ll ever find
if we monkeys are juice in fruit, this man’s the rind
ready at the drop of a hat with some kind
standing ever ready to get you out of a bind

My doppleganger Hawah does a lot of yoga
Way too healthy to ever drink soda
You gotta get a load o’ the way this man stands
With him walking the world, it’s like we’ve each four hands

Back in the day, Mama Laila fed us all
An inundation of inspiration, an energy ball
End up at her place after playing the National Mall
Now she takes care of our snack, Amal

Sweet little Yummers has the brightest smile
Nobody can step to her on the dance floor, child
We spent some time, kicked it for awhile
For her company, I’d walk every mile of the Nile

It was recently the 27th anniversary of the Proposition One Vigil outside of the White House. Prop One is an anti nuclear grassroots movement, that has been doing the vigil since june 3rd 1981 when William Thomas though most know him as just Thomas sat down and then later Concepcion Picciotto (just known by her first name) sat down with him and well there begins some history and here is my poem about it that was written for their big 25th celebration


In 1981 a man sat down

he sat down on the cold white house ground

all he wanted was honesty and wisdom but the president 

couldn’t make a  nuclear proliferation treaty 

cause he kept building tanks missiles and bombs 

didn’t care if the world was soon to be gone

then very soon a lady sat down

she sat down on the cold white house ground

she joined up with the man, Thomas his name, 

Concepcion hers, they weren’t playing a game

they built up many signs, some big and some small

they drummed and fasted throughout the fall, but the cops came and took them away

said you will not have a better day, but they all came back 

and stayed there through years of tragedies tears and presidential fears

they stood up tall and they will not fall 25 (now 27) years and thats not all



For more info about the vigil and whatnot

Go, Musharraf, go!
That's how my flow goes
so learn what happened if you don't already know

Pakistan needs to see democracy
we need sanity
to help preserve humanity

the vanity of America's fading empire
means only that the rubble will pile higher
kick the liars and the cronies out of power.

Wash your hands of the master's plan.
Attack Iran?  What makes 'em think we can?

Cheney's high-rollin' for 30 years with no plan,
chickenhawks say we need to invade
but talks ain't even started, and there's peace parades

They want more war, but why listen to them?
They started a quagmire and will do it again.
To stop the next war, brother, pick up your pen.

The DC Guerrilla Poetry Insurgency (GPI) is an anti-authoritarian, collaborative, pro-humanity artists' collective incorporating music, rhythm, spoken word, community and resistance.

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