Just by Chance? by Diamond Dave

Just by chance?

Not too likely.

Just because the reason is now unclear

Doesn’t mean we won’t know

One day,

If we hang in,

And out,

Follow the stream

Right down to the sea,

Look up to see the stars

And really see the sky,

Undeterred                                                     

By conventional-thinking

Shortsighters,

Deaf and blind to the spirit,

Naysayers, killjoys,

Wallbuilders, doorslammers,

Vision-slayers, doom-sayers,

Scribes and Pharisees of science,

Theological engineers,

Lords of the system of things.

New morning,
Spring sap flows,

Fingertips touch, eyes glow.

In the night of the living dead

The poets remain alive,

Walking down that tightrope wire,

Looking out for one another,

Just strolling down

That moonlit path,

That good red road.

Dreamweavers,

Spiritbenders,

Healing the pain,

Soothing the silent screams,

Warriors of the Rainbow

Just singing a freedom song.

It’s about this:

It’s about it be darkest

Just before the dawn,

But when

And where

You least expect it

Help will come along.

Like green shoots

Thrusting through

The damp, dark earth,

Love will spring anew,

Life will spring anew,

Just breaking through

The ice.

On Lavoy Finicum by Davis Hammon

In light of the circumstances of Lavoy Finicum's death, a flood of emotions and memories have come out for his friends and family. Davis Hammon has been Lavoy's neighbor and friend for the last four years and shares his perspective.


I care not to partake in the spite around Lavoy Finicum’s death. He was valiant and chose freedom right up to the absolute end, giving not a hook for them to claw into his life. As he drew the fire away from the truck and the comrades inside he knew what he was getting into, so the word victim doesn't fit here. He chose his ground, where he would live free or die. He knew that the corrupt laws would stack against him in a nightmarish court system and that they would crush the open country from out of his heart. As his hands were up and that first bullet ripped into him (I believe from the first agent running toward him from the right) he had faced his enemy. He could have come out of that truck with pistol in hand firing, but he didn't. Violence was not his motivation. But he wasn't going to cower either. He did what he felt he must: face them, with hands up, to communicate that he meant no aggression, but really face them as he shouted, "If you're gonna shoot me, just shoot me". Most people cower at the site of a gun pointed at them. But not Finacum. No, he stared straight at death with the fierceness of courage and freedom running through his veins. Not many comrades can do that.

What matters to me is not whether this was an execution. Of course it was. Not just because of the events at the very last, but more importantly, the way the Feds slowly strangled the holdout, the people and the cause judiciously and calculating. I don't think they pre meditated Lavoy or anybody else's killing. They want all this to blow over and lose the public eye. And killings attract public attention. No, they wanted to strangle these people in court while the general populace quits paying attention. That's where they have them on their turf, with their corrupt laws and their playing rules. Then they can stamp guilty and keep the status quo going. It's harder to do that when there is wide attention by the populace.

What matters to me is that we don't lose focus. Lavoy's death has brought about a lot of awareness about the ideas he cared about -- the ideas he died for.

I really enjoyed spending time with Lavoy and his wife Jeannette over the past few years and was over there last fall to discuss what so many desert dwellers talk about: water! We were neighbors sharing a well and were discussing possibilities. But conversation soon veered toward the land--the Arizona Strip and the spreading grass across the monsoon drenched landscape. And how much this land mattered to us. He began sharing how he had chosen to quit paying the Feds for grazing permits on BLM land and that instead he had taken the money down to Kingman (county seat of Mohave) to offer them the payment instead. This was part of his belief in action in that lands belonged to local governance. That we, the people, of our own communities are responsible for the care taking and hold the rights to our own land. The federal govt had no right to enact monuments that gather large swaths of square miles, robbing the county and states. And that the Taylor Grazing Act of 1934 was a horrible blow to our freedom and a dangerous slope toward over reach. The act, among other things, granted the Federal govt to collect dues from grazing on public lands and furthered the shift of power away from the states as the main administrators.

Now, the Taylor Grazing act was enacted in large part in response to overgrazing and destabilization of land soils. A lot of grazing has been harmful to the grasslands over the years, sometimes devastatingly so. Lavoy was not aloof to environmental care of the land. Just the opposite. I was impressed by both his knowledge of the plants and his love for being out under the open sky, sleeping on the ground and breathing in the sage smell after a summer rain. He talked about how over the years the overgrazing in the Arizona strip had fundamentally changed the way the water interacts. When the grasses were more intact many, many years ago the river would delta out and spread out across the surface, nourishing a large swath of land. It was the grass roots that held the soil. But as the grasses dwindled the roots could no longer hold that soil and the water began to cut down, instead of spread out. This resulted in deep gouges and washes forming, where the water would rush away, leaving the surface dryer, which made things even worse. Eventually this resulted in more sage and rabbit brush moving in and fundamentally changed what was once a primarily grass dominated land to sage dominated. This was Lavoy sharing all this with me. He knew what bad grazing was. And he also knew how to change the grazing practices and was already doing so. He knew that a herd, if managed properly, can actually rejuvenate the grasses and slow the water down in the desert, thus spreading out and nourishing more roots. He knew how to keep the cows grazing heavily for shorter periods of time, then moving them away to allow that land to resurge with the natural dung and hoof activated seed planting.

He was no rancher for short term profit. No, he was in it for the long haul. He really believed in not only the people of a land, but in the land itself. He believed in care taking and that a people only survive because of the dirt under their feet. So, I say what if we considered ourselves as care takers. That we the people, within our own local counties and communities, take responsibility for our own lands. Not for our gluttony, but for our children, and our children's children. We do survive because of the dirt under our feet. Because of the food it brings and the space it provides. And do we really think that some bureaucracy located thousands of miles away will care for our spaces with the same passion and dedication as us, the people dependent on it the most. Lavoy was about bringing it home -- to claim what is rightly ours and stop offsetting policy to a body of demagogues that don't walk here.

The Peddler and his Goat by Robert Ennis

(Read out loud or to yourself in a Punjabi accent. Like you're from India.)

Once upon a time, in the East, a peddler moved spices along the Silk Road. He was tall and gaunt, with blue eyes and very dark skin. He was thin because he was never getting enough to eat. He had a large and angry goat that pulled his small cart alongside him. The peddler had to be careful because his goat was fat and clever, although he was strong and pulled the cart along even dangerous rocks.

One night the peddler was camped along a mountain pass, just off to the side of the dirt road in a little hidden culvert. He thought it would help him avoid robbers: he was told in the last town that there were many thieves along the road, but he hadn’t seen a single soul since he left that town. Not even a bird, nor a squirrel; no lizard nor even a humming insect. The next village was another day’s travel down the road. The peddler scratched his goat behind the ears, and leapt out of the way just as his goat met his gentle hand with a head-butt. Pawing the ground, the fat animal spat and cast an unreadable gaze at him. The peddler gathered himself, dusted his long smock, and gathered some firewood. The awful goat seemed to have freed itself from the bindings that held it to the cart. The peddler noted with dismay that the expensive leather straps had been chewed, and marveled at how little time it took the beast to chew through them. Replacing them would mean a much smaller profit on his already-diminished cargo.

A few weeks earlier, on a hot day in Shahr-e Bijar, the peddler was discussing staying the night in the barn with the local miller when the contemptible animal had quietly ruminated its rope restraints and fled straight toward the river to cool down. However, the lingering rope had become entangled around the goat’s rear leg, so the cart still followed it. The racket of the cart banging against the ground frightened the confused goat so much that it fled with extraordinary haste. When the peddler finally caught up to it, the goat had lost half of the expensive crates in the river. The kind miller took pity on the peddler and allowed him to stay the night at no cost, and even helped him recover as much as he could of the lost, moistened and generally ruined crates. That very night, the goat chewed through the rope that held it in place, and gnawed its way entirely through the wooden fence that held it in. To make matters worse, the fixated animal gnawed through the fences and ropes of all of the miller’s animals, and they ran free that night and trampled crops and gobbled most of the herbs in the garden. The peddler had to sell nearly half of his cargo to pay for the damages done to the miller.

Now, in the little meadow, the goat seemed content to chew on the different bushes, ripe with brightly-colored berries. A bitterness filled the heart of the peddler. He resented that he had spent so much money and time on this evil animal; he was beginning to believe that the goat was sent by God to afflict him for his sins. On some level, he believed, it was the will of God that this malevolent animal should ruin him. He mused to himself, “So the goat is free. So what? Let it run off into the woods and get killed by wolves!” At that moment, the peddler’s rumbling belly reminded him of the absence of his last meal. He looked at his hands. They were dark, dehydrated, and thin. Thin. Maybe the goat could earn its keep after all.

The peddler scouted through the mulberry trees for deadfall, and filled his arms with kindling while his mind flooded with vengeful and happy thoughts about eating the bedeviling goat. How would the goat be prepared for dinner? So much of the cargo had been lost, but some of the spices would still be useful. Yes, yes, the goat was large, and even if some of the meat went to waste, it was really no waste at all. A man can pull a cart on his own, with only a little more difficulty. But this small effort paled in comparison to the suffering the goat had caused.

The sun was down, but a little light remained as the peddler arrived back at the little culvert. He had become too excited about his prospects to remain careful, so when the peddler got close it was too late to hide from the three figures who had gathered around his goat and cart. All were wearing black and wildly ruffled clothing. Their feet were shod in soft-padded boots; and one carried a curved dagger in his hand.  One of the men was rummaging through one of the larger boxes on the cart. All three had noticed the peddler arriving, and the one with the dagger moved towards him aggressively.

At the edge of the clearing, the peddler’s mind raced for a solution until he settled on a ridiculous plan. At the last second, when it was probably too late to run, he cycled through a few brisk greetings in several languages; all the while considering whether the blade-wielding thief was actually so incredibly tall as he appeared. The thief, for his part, wagged the cruel knife with one hand, and barked orders while wagging his other hand so as to indicate the ground to the peddler. The implication was obvious, but the peddler was not about to die on an empty belly.

With the shouts of the thief, the peddler realized what language these men spoke. He swallowed hard before responding in kind. He said, “Welcome to my camp! I have been expecting you. Let me build you a fire and cook you a delicious meal. I have use for men like you!”

The tall thief pulled his face covering aside with a little surprise. His skin was also dark, and his eyes as intensely blue as those of the peddler. The other two men; both shorter and wiry but also dark-skinned and blue-eyed, stopped in their tracks. The tall one, obviously in charge, demanded, “Hey! What is your name? And where is your home?”

The peddler inwardly smiled, but kept a straight face. “You are thieves, no? And brigands? I have a job for you. Nobody knows a thief like other thieves. I know of a certain thief, and I want revenge. This thief stole a great deal of riches from me, and ruined half my goods in a river. I will pay handsomely for the death of this particular thief.”

One of the shorter thieves quipped, “Why should we not simply take everything you have and kill you here, stranger? Although... you do look very familiar.” His hard look softened into one of mild confusion.

Noting the thief’s loss of resolve, the peddler continued all the more firmly, “I have traveled far and wide, but I assure you this will be a simple task. As a matter of fact, the thief in question is at this very spot!” and he pointed to the goat.

All of the men laughed, first in disbelief and then in genuine mirth, but all turned severe in a heartbeat. The wind was picking up, and the sunlight would only last for a few more minutes.

The tall thief strode to the goat, which was chewing and re-chewing some berries. In one smooth motion the tall thief grabbed one of the goat’s horns and his dagger slashed across the lower part of the goat’s throat. The bleating beast struggled for a moment, but as the blood drained from its body its eyes dimmed, and its jerking muscles calmed. The peddler cringed, but felt a quiet satisfaction at the death of the creature that had caused him so much trouble.

The peddler started a fire and discussion ensued. The peddler and thieves certainly appeared to be from the same little village, albeit from different families. Conversation between all became jovial as the taller thief skinned and gutted the goat. He seemed quite skilled with his blade. Spiced beverages were shared, and the mood livened as jokes were traded. However, one of the shorter fellows seemed to become increasingly agitated as the hours wore on. By the time the goat was ready to be eaten, this angry young man insisted, “Enough! For the peddler, no goat meat! I don’t care. We are thieves, and we are supposed to be robbing people. We haven’t even killed this man. I am very disappointed in us for being so unprofessional. We need to stand for our ideals. Tomorrow we take the goods and leave him here. As for tonight, nothing but lentils for the peddler!”

The peddler froze in confusion as he believed they’d all become decent acquaintances fairly quickly. But he knew how stubborn the people of his village could be. The tall thief apologized to the peddler for the outburst from his young friend, but admitted that it would be a terrible breach of thief protocol to allow the peddler to go with his goods. They had a reputation to maintain.

Grimacing, the peddler accepted his fate. He knew he was outmanned. The thieves gorged themselves on goat meat, leaving nothing for the peddler who had naught but lentils to eat that night. The night grew long, and sleep overtook all of them.

In the morning, the peddler awoke with a jolt. The embers of the fire still smoldered, but something was wrong, even considering the bizarre circumstances. His eyes darted around in horror at the scene that lay before him. There, surrounded in the culvert by green leafy trees and bushes with bright berries, were the leftover bones and skin of the goat next to the cart. The thieves lay where they had slept, their bellies torn open. The thieves were unquestionably dead, surrounded by their own blood, with long streaks of red trailing off into the woods around them. As the peddler examined the bodies for just a moment he came to a dizzying realization: The flaps of skin and cloth that hung ragged around the burst stomachs had the marks of goat teeth upon them. The peddler rubbed his hungry belly with a little bit of gratitude that he hadn’t partaken of the goat last night. There was truly no restraint that the evil goat could not chew through.

Joshua Tree by Christina Osborn

A voodoo mask

of stiff needles

screamed defiance

at a streetlight

on a Wednesday night.

And all nights,

since the city

isn’t likely to take

the plight of a tree

very seriously.

I noticed as I sat

in a patter of rain

that the tree,

Joshua by name,

was leaning

at an extreme angle

away from its

electrified companion

which also happened

to be due west

and away from

the sunrise.

Not so unlikely

since the sun

and the tree

would tend to be

best acquainted

from eleven

to sunset,

there standing

a mountain

fifty feet to the east

tall enough to

shade through

the morning hours.

Still,

I could see

there was an

enmity between

these two tall fellows,

though painfully

one-sided,

since light posts

can’t sense

the rage of others

nor feel smugness

for their obvious

upper hand

over lovers

of darkness.

Trees aren’t,

in my experience,

usually so foolish,

so I concluded

that some poor ghost,

hungry and lost,

had lodged itself here

on the approach

to Skyline Drive,

in the shaggy bark

carapace of a

normally calm

and silent

desert

dweller.

The Beach (Poem for Ali) by Christina Osborn

Someone dropped me off by the ferris wheel
And I stayed there all day
Until a policeman told me,
"We have help for people like you."
So I cleared off the boardwalk
And sat with an old clown
With feathers and beads
And a circus of teenagers
All drinking in broad daylight
We talked over the waves
And smoked cigarrettes
The opium haze of 75 degrees
And rim to rim sunlight
Settled like plastic wrap
And I looked down the shore
Half sea and half sand
Thinking
Beyond here is a vast land
Filled with fishes and barges
And lonely sea dogs
And hurricanes and sandbars
And the music of the shells
But here we have rock n' roll
And old dudes in vans
and the lives of ten thousand bums
And the inexorable wait
For the setting of the eternal sun.

Winter 1966 by Christina Osborn

I had none of that trap
Only two suits and a notebook
And a splintered toilet bowl
And a rattling whistle
Of the New York street wind
It was everything I wanted
The grease tasted like gravy
And the girls were all geniuses
Cupping their empty hands
I seemed to them kingly
An old world tycoon
A stranger to each at every moment
And I felt my weight
Shaking the cobblestones
As they whispered to the earth
Here is a great man


It was raining when I called
With a note from a friend
And a few old things
I'd been showing around.
Her curtains were clean,
They brushed the wooden floor
And the afternoon waned
As we drank to the city,
Our mutual lover.
When the sun filtered through
The cracked western window
It caught in her hair
As she paced, straight backed,
Laughing like a lioness at lunch
Her eyes two blue roses
In a gray tangled wood.

No Name #2 by Ryan Rutkoskie

The walls of her room are alive and pulsing with reminders

the obsessive pen renderings

a reminder of a long gone relative

and I wonder what substance accompanied the cracks of his mind

on his journey through the countless carefully connected lines and the colors that leap about them

in the far corner

a marker board reminder of Buddha

an erasable placement of permanent wisdom

mirrored doors present written reminders of who she is

and I realize

who we are is often the easiest thing to forget

regardless of how sharp we think our memories to be

volumes stacked by her bed

collect up every quote to ever touch her

conjoining in her own open ended bible

they provide her with a roadmap to a god more

internal than eternal

She reads me her short story

it regards the storm swept wreckage that clutters her existence

she illuminates it in a way that's so bright and beautiful

I want to gather it all up and carry it away with her

and I see us together in that mirrored door

crowded with all its revelation

and I feel as if my reflection has never been clearer

it finally shows me that part of myself

that allows me to feel this way about somebody

without fear or pretense

without the weight of expectation

without the adornment of some foolish mask

we're not trying to complete each other

but we help make each other complete without trying at all

and the walls

so totally covered yet so naked

reverberate and sing to me

and I already know I've never known such a complete person as her so completely

and all our time and experience

all we've learned, accomplished and become

it's encircled us, pulling us together into this moment

where we can be truly be perfect for one another