my gut is using my heart as a punching bag, and i’d be able to sleep this monday night except for the rumble of yellow school buses through a city, buildings and bricks, all toppled as if it was kissing the soaked ground; a woman, unconscious, in a dress of water; a grandmother underwater in the attic she grew up in; a youngest son shot by soldiers on a bridge in new orleans; families floating like oil on water; the blocks children grew up, the street lamps that told them when to go home, the kitchens they learned how to cook in, all gone, gone, gone…

fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

kid oakland on race and racism
o-dub’s thought on new orleans and america
the two americas
mike davis on the poor, the black, and the left behind
salon on unheeded lessons from chicago

and

kiwi on the alternative red cross