fresh in the miracle of birth, your eyes were the universe


Crazy Santas Occupy the World – photo collage

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Guns and Oil


Francis Coelho

By the time I had reached the age of twelve I was an extremely good thief. Shoplifting was my specialty. I stole an entire set of oil paints from the local stationary store. I went for the deluxe model, large tubes of paint, brushes, linseed oil, turps, a palette and palette knives – no point in stealing cheap shit. I had been doing a lot of drawing and painting since I was four or five, but when I discovered oil painting, I went ape shit. Water colors are not a little boy’s medium, they are delicate and unforgiving. But oil paints – you can smear it on and scrape it off, make big gooey glops or light washes. I fell in love… Read the rest of this page »


I wrote this song over 40 years ago, on the day of the slaughter, but I think of it as the best song I never wrote. I’d just finished the day shift at Frazier Boilerworks, and I bought a newspaper at the bus stop. The front page headline told it all. I sat in the back row of the bus where no one could see me cry. I heard a voice inside my head. It seemed to me it was the voice of a dead prisoner. I wrote down the words just as I heard them…

They call me a criminal, put me in prison
Lock me up, throw away the key
I’d rather be free than go on livin’
I know my people will remember me

Attica Prison, upstate New York, 1971.