Table of Contents

NaPoWriMo 2016

NaPoWriMo 2013

class GeekPoetry(Poetry):

Theopoetics

Metapoetry

More Good Poems

Vote Common Good Tour

Video Utterances

About The Michael

Contact details

Infrequently Asked Questions

postcards from the unicorn caravan

greg drove the giant orange bus packed with poets, activists, pastors, authors and the assorted magicians who make the show possible i drove the rv, pulling the trailer with the folding chairs, yard signs, t-shirts and sound gear, vince rode shotgun spinning playlists ancient sounds stolen from lost libraries songs of irreverence from the reverend miles vanishing while music broke everything that music can break nick drove the pickup pulling the eleventh wonder of the modern world, the apex twenty sixteen mobile stage (tm) which, when we finally stopped at the market or parking lot, or picnic grounds, or empty lot, unfolded from a plain white trailer, a transformer awakening, a flower blooming, a city appearing from the mists that would host our carnival of mysteries for the evening step inside ladies and gentlemen prepare to be amazed see the pro-life pundit demand you vote for democrats marvel as you hear a red state political activist broken hearted at the actions of those she once admired gaze upon the republican congressional candidate driven by his faith to stump for anyone but trump one redditor even demanded pictures, quipping they'd sooner believe in a bus load of unicorns than something as impossible as evangelicals against trump stalked by film crews, and the ten o'clock news we danced little thirty second mating dances in front of them hoping they would tell a story to friends in front of us who we might meet somewhere down the road yes, people came to see us, they were, glad we came, glad to be there, glad to sing our songs glad to stand with us glad to buy a t-shirt and take us home never enough to make us feel like it was all worth it never so few that we were sorry we even tried in the morning they'd find us gone to the next town nothing but a fading memory of how much we loved them maybe our miracle cure was nothing more than ditch water in orange and blue bottles, but we were too wise to believe any of it mattered and too much in love to let ourselves offer less than everything, everywhere. i have my stories, of course funny stories, scary stories, sad stories, ... i feel a strange reluctance to mention them they are part of an incantation which is not yet complete, a tribe that cannot be photographed without stealing souls, words of power which would burn the page i tried to write them on, inhale before a dive so deep i'd drown before i could remember to breathe again. it was pilgrimage, to the holy place which was eternally two hundred miles ahead of us, a caravan powered by diesel and tears, a raft floating down the interstate drifting on currents made of songs and hope, til it washed out into the pacific. ... it was a confession, because i once was afraid enough to belong to the mobs begging for a wall made of blood i thought i woke up wrote one check, was snarky on facebook felt like that was more than most people do so that must be enough and now i've had two years to regret every thing i did not do thus, my penance, i think, to keep making this quest which i now know something about know what equipment i will need know who i need to have with me when i go oh, and don't forget vince's secret playlists