Standing Up and Speaking Truth

June Faramore:

“To say that all RH did was to utter words is a complete denial of what we are as writers. Words have power, and words wielded in hatred and violence are just has harmful as violence dealt out with fists.”

Originally posted on From the Beloved Country:

I believe that no one has any right to dictate to me when I should speak, where I should speak or how I should speak on any given subject. I also believe that questioning a person on the choices they make is breach of personhood. In matters pertaining to decisions about one’s profession, that questioning is a clear breach of professionalism. I also want to reiterate that if the work under discussion is a work that I have not read in its completed form, it is not right for me to criticize the work or condemn it.

I write the above because this was at the heart of the conflict that took place between Alex Dally MacFarlane and myself on the 19th of July and it was also this conflict that led to Requires Hate breaking all ties with me.

Alex has spoken in public of a conflict that took…

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I Feel No Need

To mark with days
The power of words
Or the things I say
But if a pretentious copy cat
Can spew more words
There can be a cant
Here, of miseries untold
Sorrows shining, memory
Cold. Child, you are no match
For trees, or broken hearts,
Or well turned leaves
Of books enshrined in memory.
We shared the sand.
He bled for me.

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365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Five

lid is opening.
not too late, air a known.
quantity, subsist.


365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Four

rusted shut.
kick and kick but resistance is futile.
worked all muscles.
but atrophy set in.
there were too many days.
between standing and laying.
then trying to stand again.
remember the exercises.
salvation lies in.
finding the flexibility.
to reach one thing at a time.
while holding off the pain.
fingers, wrists, arms.
all tingles, no way of knowing.
if they are doing what I say.
we accounted for this.
water is wet, after all.
rust will flake, salt dissolve.
with the right tools.


365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Three

he called me a cunt.
this is my family.
no presents or Christmas cheer here.
just loneliness and heartache.

nobody’s fault but mine.
some asshole butchered Stairway last night.
and I don’t work at a guitar store.

so many things I should do.
but proper functioning is not on my radar.
I’ve broken the last good dream.
there was for me.


365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-Two

tis the season.
to think about things past.
miss the things you had.
and cry.

the cold shocks.
tears stop.
if only for a little while.
they always return.

too much.
always too much.
I break.
I am not strong.
I am not worthy.
but at least I’m alive.

for now.


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