Wednesday, February 25, 2009
ft. carson
I went out to Ft. Carson today to take photos at their week-long training exercise, "operation gunsmoke". Real guns, real bullets real mortars, and real loud canons. It was pretty cool. But I found the people were more interesting than the guns... So here are a few:
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
rain.
met this man outside st. john's cathedral. he and his kitten rain were enjoying a nice colorado afternoon.
he let me hang out with them for a while. they clearly loved each other.
he let me hang out with them for a while. they clearly loved each other.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
they sure do like their pork...
Protesters on Tuesday against the latest economic stimulus package that was signed by our very own President Obama at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. The protest was held at the State Capital at the exact same time the bill was signed.
here are some photos:
yes, they brought out a real pig. his name is nathan, he liked me.
nathan cheesin' for the camera.
preachin'
yellin'
brought some good eats too.
here are some photos:
yes, they brought out a real pig. his name is nathan, he liked me.
nathan cheesin' for the camera.
preachin'
yellin'
arguing
two brave dems show...
two brave dems show...
...and immediately get screamed at by a few privileged blonde kids about how "Obama doesn't know what it's like to be a struggling black man in America because he went to an Ivy League school".
brought some good eats too.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Jamais
Jamais. Never forget. Black feet, black hands, broken, filthy nails. A nine year old going on ninty. 11. The number buried alive.
Amazing grace, oh how sweet was that sound? Wailing through the doors, shaking the rafters and my bones. The light was white, reflecting off the walls. Their skin was dark and rich, their voices strong and beautiful. Beautiful.
I sat in my tent and cried. My heart burst, it burst through my chest, and it left blood on my hands. I sat there and saw it all. I felt it, I smelled it. I cried, and cried. I gasped for air, but it wouldn’t come. I couldn’t believe how blinding the light was once my eyes had been forced open for the first time. I couldn’t believe the pain. A chain attached itself to my heart, and suddenly it weighed a ton. Ten minutes, and I slowed my breathing, wiped my eyes, unzipped my tent and stepped into the sun. I was 17, so young to fall in love, but from that moment on, my heart belonged to Haiti.
Jamias. Never forget, jamais.
I tasted the orange dusty sunsets of Cambodia. I smelled the burning landfill. I met a Pol Pot survivor, a survivor. Living in the dump all her life. The pulse of the world quickens. The belts in America thicken, and she stays steady, steps carefully, and survives.
The world of the slums, with cardboard-paved streets and teetering houses made of trash. Sunlight filters through and a naked child runs by, carrying scissors. He’s just a child.
The world whirls, its colors blurring together. The smells blend, and all I can make out is that sting of burning trash. Burning my senses and jarring my defenses.
He’s missing an eye, and half of an arm. He pulls a land mine from the air and tosses it lazily up and down, showing us how his life was changed forever when as an innocent boy he thought he had found a play-thing. America’s toys are not meant for children. For shame for shame, I hung my head. He lost his livelihood, and his brother is dead.
I can taste the salty sweet blood in my mouth, I spit, and I can make out three shades of color.
Red, white and blue.
Never forget.
Jamais.
Amazing grace, oh how sweet was that sound? Wailing through the doors, shaking the rafters and my bones. The light was white, reflecting off the walls. Their skin was dark and rich, their voices strong and beautiful. Beautiful.
I sat in my tent and cried. My heart burst, it burst through my chest, and it left blood on my hands. I sat there and saw it all. I felt it, I smelled it. I cried, and cried. I gasped for air, but it wouldn’t come. I couldn’t believe how blinding the light was once my eyes had been forced open for the first time. I couldn’t believe the pain. A chain attached itself to my heart, and suddenly it weighed a ton. Ten minutes, and I slowed my breathing, wiped my eyes, unzipped my tent and stepped into the sun. I was 17, so young to fall in love, but from that moment on, my heart belonged to Haiti.
Jamias. Never forget, jamais.
I tasted the orange dusty sunsets of Cambodia. I smelled the burning landfill. I met a Pol Pot survivor, a survivor. Living in the dump all her life. The pulse of the world quickens. The belts in America thicken, and she stays steady, steps carefully, and survives.
The world of the slums, with cardboard-paved streets and teetering houses made of trash. Sunlight filters through and a naked child runs by, carrying scissors. He’s just a child.
The world whirls, its colors blurring together. The smells blend, and all I can make out is that sting of burning trash. Burning my senses and jarring my defenses.
He’s missing an eye, and half of an arm. He pulls a land mine from the air and tosses it lazily up and down, showing us how his life was changed forever when as an innocent boy he thought he had found a play-thing. America’s toys are not meant for children. For shame for shame, I hung my head. He lost his livelihood, and his brother is dead.
I can taste the salty sweet blood in my mouth, I spit, and I can make out three shades of color.
Red, white and blue.
Never forget.
Jamais.
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