Posts for June 8, 2020 (page 8)

I thought my voice was to small to be heard, so I kept my mouth shut

And when the people were screaming for help, I did not raise my hand because I thought there was nothing I could do

When the marches started, I thought they didn’t need another sign, so I locked myself inside 

And when time went on as the violence rose, as the people begged for justice, I kept my face a mask

Not advocating for either side

My silence did not make me neutral, but made me cruel

The lack of a voice only gave more power to the opressors

I was just as much of a villian

And when I realized my mistake, I was already on the wrong side of history

Don’t be on the wrong side, lend your voice, your dollars, your hope

We are a force and we demand justice.

The Family Tree
                                                 
I come from a family of trees                                                            
rooted in tradition                                                                            
                          morality                                                                            
                          prejudice                                                                            
                          and pride.                                              
We’ve been up and down                                                
through death and divorce                                                               
                        rum and religion.  
                                               
Father died young                                               
he was a willow                                                   
          and a part of me died with him.
                                                 
But now,                                                
I sit in the shade                                                
of an Oak tree                                                
Mother Oak                                                
who spreads her branches                                                
to shelter us from the world.                                                
Without bending                                                            
             she’s weathered many storms.
                                                 
She knows me,                                               
for I am her.
                                                 
The acorn of her soul.
                                                                               
Tony Sexton

We leave thirty minutes later 
than we meant to,
as per usual,
but the air is still cool.

Soft wind tosses my shirt
and goosebumps pop up on my arms.

But once my feet begin to pound the pavement,
slightly slower than the rate my heart is going,
I warm up.

At around mile one,
a stitch makes itself known
on my right side
and at mile two I begin to dry heave.

Is it wrong to push through the pain?

I see a
#ICAN’TBREATHE
chalk design in front of the court house
and I couldn’t agree more.

My father’s steady pace keeps me in check
and his silent companionship is a blessing.
It is what keeps me going until we get to stop
and walk back home.

Like the sunrise
After a storm
The flip of a switch
As night falls
You are the golden strand
In my former scars
Kintsugi
The precious reparation 
Of broken things.

it is colorless    devoid
              of warmth
                             or brilliance

it is head down
             hands in pocket

                          scurrying

back to the nest in the wall
             like a cockroach

                          exposed

by sudden light

The lyric moment
holds time still,
recreates the circumstances
so we can interrupt,
a time to creature a world together
where guns are melted to make shovels.

Or explore the city
with no money and no phone, as a way
to go beyond the neighborhood,
the rhythm of walking
an action poem.

Or concoct a thought experiment investigating
the poet’s white Michigan hometown.

Or sing a little field holler,
digging dirt in the Mississippi Delta to raise levees,
The mules worked themselves to death
with those songs in their ears.

Or ponder a 12,000-year-old beech wood in Australia,
a witness tree, a wolf tree alone in a field,
left over from a previous ecology.

Poems can make arguments.
They can trouble the line.
We go out wolfing in Kentucky.

git
– the stupid content tracker

Git is fast, unusually rich
provides full access to internals.

to get started, see a more
in-depth introduction.

After you mastered the basic concepts, you can come back
to learn what Git offers.

learn about individual Git
with “git help” overview.

Run as if git started working.

When multiple options are given,
each is relative.

Note that omitting the git
is allowed
and sets the true value.

convert to false
your core Git.

Set the path.

Specifying the location
tells Git that you are at the top level
of the working tree.

Main commands
Create a tree.
find the bug.
delete branches.
Move objects.
restore tree.
Record changes.
Give an object a human name.
Show commit.
Join two or more histories together.
integrate with another.
merge without touching.

These commands are to interact with other people

Salvage data people love to hate.
about making a new commit.
about restoring another commit.
about moving the tip in.

This operation changes
the commit history. divides
the low-level commands into commands that manipulate,
commands that interrogate and compare objects.

Any Git can also use a more complete list
of ways to take care.

This environment contains, among other things, a compressed database representing history, an “index” which links that history to the current, and pointers into that history.

probably more detail than necessary

Issues which are relevant
should be disclosed privately

—
Found poem (erasure) from the Linux Man Pages. Original text at:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/git.1.html
AUTHORS top
Git was started by Linus Torvalds, and is currently maintained by Junio C Hamano. Numerous contributions have come from the Git mailing list <git@vger.kernel.org[6]>.
http://www.openhub.net/p/git/contributors/summary gives you a more complete list of contributors.

I sit at the kitchen table
these days,
coffee cup in hand,
staring out the window,
staring at
the snow-covering of dust
on the sill.

How does dust descend?
Do fairies scamper about
sprinkling dust in some magic
incantation?
Is some tiny lost soul
leaving crumbs
to find its way home?

The day passes.
The dust remains.
 Nothing changes.

40 is too many.
22 is too many.
10 is too many.
7 is too many.
2 is too many.
1 is too many.

to eric salgado
to breonna taylor
to michael brown
to philando castile
to tamir rice
to trayvon martin
to the unending list of others…

may you all rest in peace-
and the ones who did this never know peace again.

woke this morning with an urgent need to pray
dropped to my knees, didn’t know what to say
didn’t say anything, didn’t have to
silence was effulgent because God was praying too