STREET ART #Banksy (Oct 15, 2013)



“Staring the fire down” by Carolyn Srygley-Moore


What color do the bedouins inhabit to keep out the sun //

To become reflection, & not absorption?


I was young when the massacre occurred at Kent State,

it did not phase me. I was still inhabiting the pastel cloth


that reflects the heat. I was still a pastel myself

like the dead girl Allison, who put a flower in the rifle's barrel & said

flowers are better. Something like that.

What color would she have chosen to be, should she have to choose?


What life would she have chosen, knowing she had to leave?

My hands are trembling. Do I remember, I ask myself, the first time

I saw a man's hand tremble, as it hovered

over my body, in violence or in love? Do I remember


the first time I saw the pianist melt into the instrument,

swaying, his fingers playing the keys as heat plays lava. No.


I never kneel when I pray. I stand upright before God & man alike,

I never kneel when I pray. I wear black now, intent

on taking on the heat, on staring the fire down

into its very source, its thievery, its final ember.





Good Production Values

You don’t get very good production values when you are surreptitiously filming through a hole in your shirt a bunch of goons at war against unarmed, impoverished village people. What is the point of shooting children down.

I had a friend tell me once there is no evil in the world.

I do not believe it. It is out there. I have seen it. I have smelled it like burning rubber is an acrid thing. There is evil in the world.

Human rights advocates take heart from such abstract events as the World Court going up against crimes against humanity. World leaders, all goons with goon squads, can be indicted.

But what about these guys with the guns. They are almost always men. So they do what they are told to do.

This is no defense.

Everyone draws his own lines in the sand.

I could never work at a dog pound that killed dogs. There’s a line. I could not do it. I cannot pretend that I could do that.

It creeps me out.

I want to know about the men who hide their faces.

I would have no trouble whatsoever killing them. What’s more important, people or dogs.


I would have no problem killing the men in this video. It is a contradiction. But I am not conflicted anymore than the men here are conflicted. I often wonder at how stupid or vacant they must be.

It’s indifference that is both hateful and evil.

The boys who wrote FAGGOTS GET OUT on the side of my house are — what. Indifferent. Hateful. Stupid.

All of the above. I wanted to hurt them.

But staying off the radar screens is best.

I bitch and moan on my blogs mainly because I have to.

You do not see, you do not hear, you do not comprehend 98.9% of anything I write, or speak into a camera with, or photograph in any shoot. The camera is my weapon of choice these days.

Why. Because I am afraid. Of men like the ones in this video. There are men not at all unlike this who live next door to me. They are my neighbors. They are boys who write FAGGOTS GET OUT on the side of a house.

They would shoot a dog, these men. They will shoot anything that moves.

I am compelled to demonize them because I do not understand them. I do not want to understand the goons. I want to push their corpses back into the black ribbon of moonlight river.

I look at the tired emptiness in my neighbors, and I want to run. The local dog pound is a nightmare.

Some states have laws against filming horses being slaughtered. These laws were put on the books by a lobbying consortium of slaughterhouses.

What you think of as American freedom of expression is a quaint idea high school history teachers love to keep alive. Let’s rah, rah for America. Are drones used exclusively overseas. No. They are at every border. Watching. Taking pictures.

Maybe taking pictures, too, is fighting back. Fire with fire.

The world is a slaughterhouse, and I am at a complete loss as to how to film it. That journey — the filming of it — you name it: trafficking, death by association to a virus, the list goes on, is why I am here. It is a choice to be here. The kids I work with get it. It’s all a choice. Anyone can put a gun in his mouth.  

The cameras keep getting smaller and smaller. There is one where you can wear it as a medallion around your neck. It’s the size of a quarter.

It appears in no way anything like a camera. It takes great video.

I could kill these men and dump their bodies into the river they rode in on. Without a moment’s hesitation.

Good production values do not exist. The idea of it is a delusion.


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