I.

I awoke on a plot of land that was a dream of that plot of land, born beneath incarceration and alcoholic 
tendencies, delirium tremors, genocide and overdoses, outlaw counterculture and a curtain drawn as to

keep the mother still, to confine structure inaccessible behind Sequoia sempervirens and opium poppies 
tilled from old river poets soaked in tea for peninsula communities. The economy of this land started from

shells, washed ashore reflecting moon light. Threaded together as beaded family around flesh. Then; 
Indigenous slaves, to mining, to logging, to marijuana. What will be the next excavation valued more than

human life? I thought the city toughened my psyche enough to withstand the cruelty of curb stomps, 
dislocated jawbone shattered teeth crumbling, bus stop gutters and parental kidnappings. Living in a

motel room is now a fond memory compared to the silence one enters when facing a wall. I heard once 
there is nothing more uncomfortable than sitting in a room with another person, I find sitting alone

occupies space with people you never want to encounter. The coastline closest to the Oregon border is 
forgotten to those closer to other borders. The 101 disappears across the county line winding through the 

Eel River watershed. The salmon no longer dance in the current like constellations while the moon is in 
apogee. The bulldozers are reminiscent of that. The casinos are reminiscent of that. The floodlights on 

rock slides are reminiscent of that. I once spoke to a judge who still remembers the boarding schools she 
was sent to. I once spoke to an anarchist who still remembers the student chained to an old growth 

redwood before the loggers murdered him. It’s no surprise my wife and I gravitated to the old socialists
every Sunday for dinner. Backyard bonfires lighting the hightide. Dim lit poetry readings and

conversations in which my parents failed. Gary Snyder told me to look up an Earth poet once I arrived in 
the Pacific Northwest, not realizing the entire landscape was one long scroll of Ars poetica, of mountains

and rivers. I found him in the pocket of another artist, another activist, another junkie speed freak draft
dodger documenting the Zapatistas. Everything fell through the pocket hole; I never had the fortune to be

placed there, but I visit the cemetery once a month to pour a shot of whiskey and burn a cigarette in front
of the headstone that reads: Murdered by Capitalism. There is tension carried in the morning fog. Vice

gripped intoxication. The dew can be so misleading. I was told in dream it represented the blood leaking 
from president McKinley’s victims: all those who were living off the land first. It’s no surprise he was

elected as president after the Wiyot Massacre of 1860: genocide on Tulawat Island. It’s no surprise an
anarchist assassinated him. It’s no surprise 100 years later there was a statue of him placed in the plaza

square. It’s no surprise the county fought to remove him. It’s no surprise he will be placed elsewhere.


II.

I found members of a religious circle I never knew I needed. I asked them if a circle is ever complete. 
They told me no, but at the same time it’s never broken. I stared at the feet of a golden figure whose eyes

were hidden behind smoke. Repeating syllables and flipping palms laid burl wooden floor. I sat with them 
in months long rainstorms, never knowing loneliness can seep into the bones like detoxing off methadone.

The memories of my father handing a briefcase to a shadowed figure outside an interstate motel never 
left. The memories of taking the jewelry from a woman who gave me life never left. The memories of

drinking the eyes of an EMT after being dragged from a bathroom tub never left. The memories of my 
first and only catholic funeral never left, I was too young and stubborn then for it to affect me, but I now

see the open casket when I close my eyes. Why is it we think we escape the past? There is an essay called 
Uji, being-time, that predates Heidegger by four hundred years. We are beings and we are time. We are

time-beings. Time isn’t a sobriety field test. Every moment is in the moment of current breath. The 
moment I am grounded barefoot across the trail I absorb trepidation. What is it you fear? Is it the rising

sea levels? The destruction of pines, oak and cedar that offer oxygen? Is it another civil war? Is it looking 
in a mirror and realizing your bias tendencies towards other people and your own? There is a prison built

on a sacred site that smells of sea salt. Not a single tree to hold shade. The jail sits in between both 
directions of highway that passes through our largest “city” and is disproportionately filled with tribal

ancestry. At a protest I was asked by a community member what my ethnicity was, when I answered she 
replied you wouldn’t have been allowed here before 1950, but really even later than that. The waterfront

used to have a homeless encampment called the Devil’s playground. They demolished it. They labeled it 
so cruelly. Where did those people go? Over 1% of the population has no shelter. Whose backyard do

people believe they really own? If property is robbery, then I don’t see the difference between the 
genocide. Please explain this to me? My friend who wears a hijab is afraid to walk into most store fronts;

she still speaks so lyrically it would make a tyrant blush. My friend whose parents came here as refugees 
caused by American colonization has never had her name spelled correctly. Even by PhD professors. My

friend who goes by they/them was shot by a rubber bullet because they were exercising their 
constitutional right to protest. They haven’t been the same since. My friend’s son was murdered at a

campus party and the scout troop would have handled the murder scene better than the police. Too fearful 
of the black students not from here. The suspect arrested, let go, then a grand jury decided self-defense.

The same excuses a badge is privileged to. My friend with a felony record was told he would never be 
hired at T.J Maxx. They threw him out. My friend who pays taxes was followed in Target because he was

black. They led him to a backroom and told him he was stealing. In the end they gave him enough money 
for a car. Is that justice? Does this sound like California? My friends in Oklahoma were sent to prison for

a joint roach because they didn’t reflect the dominant population. Our friend who did reflect it was caught 
with an ounce. They called his mother, had a nice talk. Please explain the difference between these states?

I learned early on watersheds separated from arbitrary state lines are still subject to dominant ideologies.


III.

Ascent of switchbacks euphoria sets in. The last of azaleas and purple vein mountain violets. Starry False 
Lily of the Valleys—tender from the hip. White lance shaped petals as I filter clear stream. Chiseled

granite border like palms cupping water. Charlie is not happy the way into the drainage begins with a 
summit. He is out of practice but the air is too fresh. Fallen trunks charred and ground squirrels\

harvesting. We chase them to the top—an aftermath of fire. Cracked seeds stomped beneath hard ground. 
Grizzly creek leads to open meadows. The source-based waterfall half a mile high. Thompson is covered

in snow. Deer raid our site at nightfall. Thunder collapses the hammock. Lightning rides the ravine. I 
drive down 18 miles of unpaved gravel off SR 3. The air is thick from the old growth timber. Burning

nearly 20,000 acres, blazing 14 miles northeast of Willow Creek. The remote and rugged country rage 
with western winds. I silently pray my destination is far enough but my eyes are fixated on the glass sheet

surface of Coffee Creek. It crystallizes from the setting sun and summer fires. I only look away to dodge 
potholes and fill my bottles from the cliffside waterfalls (the road ends at the beginning of the trailhead).

My little campfire is the only source of ground light keeping me warm beneath an open sky. I 
contemplate firewood becoming ash and ash becoming from firewood. The millions of stars appear

blurry. I light an incense for the people of the Salmon River Watershed and recite a chant for well-being. 
At midnight I lay atop my car, too lazy to pull out my tent, smoking a rolled cigarette, gazing at the milky

way and finally realizing every star is a sun (the thought begins at the end of my night). I boil water at 5 
a.m. and stretch my back. After a small gulp of coffee in my blue plastic cup I take a shit and repack my

backpack. The sky is filmed over in a color that represents suicide. A pinhole orange slowly rises over the 
ridgeline. The first 10 steps I hear branches breaking east of the trail but no sign of life (the echo ends at

the beginning of my trip). At 7 a.m. the day appears to be dawn. The mountains rest in a haze like 
mescaline visions walking loudly. I ford the Salmon River by crossing a fallen Lodgepole Pine and dunk

my head in the icy sanctuary. The switchbacks are gentle but the smoke catches my lungs and burns my 
eyes (the asphyxiation ends the beginning of my trip). I took Andrew on his first overnight. 3 days

along a stretch of coastline too beautiful for pavement. No roads. No service. Only drifters. Tide time 
tables are needed to pass safely. Wet sand and heavy packs. Old lighthouses and abandoned shacks. The

sand adjusts to the body; a pillow you never knew you were missing. Narrow trails tightly walking 
cliffsides. I tell Andrew to be careful for the wind. At any moment the draft can take you tumbling

towards the shoreline. Below the ridgeline, a fleshless frame, a large mother blue whale skeleton, smooth.


IV.

The plaza reflects Barnum and Baileys on the road to an apocalyptic sideshow. The misfitted outcasts 
stumble like drunken hermit crabs. Loosely hung tight ropes balance between palm trees. Missing

teeth and shoes tied over telephone wires. Broken toe nails and bare-chested stick and poke dinosaurs. 
Desert steampunk fashion gear atop would-be train riders across from would-be neo-magicians next to

would-be peace brokers beneath would-be day trippers lost in the vortex of the Redwood Curtain. They 
meant to stay only a day, that was 30 years ago. Bowling pin jugglers and fire breathers in faded green

balloon trousers. Nose rings the size of onions, self-stitched suit vests, blue bandanas, busted hubcaps. 
The hippies who conquered this plot of land first have become the old vanguard. Sadly, never sticking

with their morals—they judge the most—they expect everything Now. Audrey has war stories in the 
customer service field. They are replaced by a new breed of wanderers. A gang of Mad Max

dwellers occupying the corners of the town center, accidentally asking police officers to buy weed and 
acid. I’ve seen the attempted transaction many times. They are caked in mud and lost in the technical

age. Mohawks and mats flipped over shaved side heads. They only come in season. When the work on the 
mountain is accessible. During the farmers market the whole town is in showbiz. Banjos, harmonicas, and

mandolins echo the sentiment. Washboards and trash cans. Harmonics and acoustics. It is on this day 
professors and homeless and bankers and drug dealers and republicans and democrats and socialists and

anarchists and tree lovers and loggers and poets and government all gather. There is a twang in the air like 
the snap of a dandelion. The petals float between panhandling circles. I met Ricky at midnight, under

a bridge my first week here. Karl Marx beard with speech from the Upanishads. He is from here and 
carries a sensitivity I have only experienced in prison. He was playing guitar and singing a love song

the first time I met him. When that guitar was stolen, I gifted him my guitar. One that I carried in my own 
travels. He now plays a 12-string and couldn't be happier. He camps on the sand dunes and wakes

up to the warmth of the sun. He is my biggest supporter. I don’t have the heart to tell him this place is 
killing him (has killed him). Across from the plaza is dive bar row. The only bars in town share the same

walls. On Christmas I met a man who told me he finally got his medication right. I bought him a beer and 
he followed me to the patio. Audrey was talking to a paranoid schizophrenic about alien abductions.

The medicated man asked me why I was here. Why am I here? A question left for another time other than 
Christmas in a dark dingy corner pocket of loneliness. Bukowski would have liked this place. The man

told me he went to school for journalism and philosophy 25 years ago. Before he was homeless. In the 
light I could see the piss stains and mold growing along his overalls. I fought the urge to tell him I was in

school for something similar. I was too afraid I was looking in a mirror.


V.

The Japanese cherry tree sheds summer skin. The oak in the front yard with the root sticking out has 
fallen into a Matisse. Cinnamon dust drifts from neighbor side kitchen windows. Audrey is collecting

sweaters—her favorite seasonal ritual. This is our first home together. Of course, we lived together in a 
shoebox the quarter size of a garage. It didn’t have a kitchen and she will be the first to tell you that

disqualifies it from being a home. Of course, this place doesn't technically have a kitchen either. Just a 
sink and counter where an oven and stove top ought to be. The landlord bought us a $20 double burner

and toaster oven. I was mistaken my money would go further in a rural community. I was mistaken the 
landlord would be a nice old lady. I was mistaken there wouldn't be any banks or credit unions in a

place where marijuana was the main source of revenue. There is no traffic between the little towns nestled 
between dairy farms and apple orchards. I lose the memory of skyscrapers and sophisticated

transportation systems. Communication is as reliable as old soup cans tied with string. Audrey was 
nervous we chose here instead of there. I played it off as if I knew what I was doing. The thought of a

Redwood forest for a backyard was appealing, not realizing society was moving further away from that 
relationship. In Autumn, we settled in with a new kitten. City officials knocked on our door soon after to

tell us we were living in an illegal unit. They cut our power. They cut a red square and tagged our door. 
They cut the space between victim and perpetrator. Our space heater just took up space. We began our

relationship by keeping each other warm. This was no different. I was living in a halfway home then. She 
was halfway out of hers. Violence is an ugly threshold to escape. When the rains came our record

player never stopped and our bookshelf never balanced straight. We memorized constellations, ready to 
point them out in late spring. I carried the groceries while she held the umbrella. She carried the

conversation while I held the silence. On New Year’s we went to the playhouse. A variety show only for 
adults. During midnight intermission I noticed a peacoat covered in white dust. Did you know there is a

place between ocean and forest at sea level where it snows? Audrey was already throwing snowballs.


VI.

My paint crew are all felons. The newest hire is fresh out of prison. The other is struggling with the perils 
of heroin addiction. Dependent on suboxone and a love for his son more than most. He is always

asking me about Big Foot in Humboldt County. He believes he lives near the Rogue River. The boss is an 
ex-hustler. He brought the street wise business model with him and beautifully transmitted the

exchange into something legit. We grew up together dodging bullets and long-term sentences. But even 
short-term sentences bring you to a place you can never fully return from. In the Umpqua River Valley, a

sign reads Timber Capitol of America. The Douglas County sign is bent and patinated from buck shots. 
Another sign reads Jesus Saves. And another. And another. Sawdust in every corner. Mills tucked

behind country roads. Pine sap poured from barrels. The Umpqua glides parallel to the railroad tracks. 
Weaving between logging mills and iron ore sparking into the smoke stack of breath that exits large

factory plants made of cracked cement and rustic brick. Old-time Americana sentiments from the past
have not faded out like East Coast ghost towns. Every morning low fog rolls over the Calapooya

Mountains that range from Roseburg to Eugene. West of the Cascade Range. Once home to the Cow
Creek Band of the Umpqua Tribe. Once home to the Kalapuya people. Once home. The crew preps and

paints new developments in between storms. Assassin-like execution except for the loud gruff and tough 
chitchat atop 30-foot ladders. The echo vibrates the bowl like a rin gong. The humid dry air allows

for paint to stick to primer even after a hard day’s rain. Long days driving job site to job site between 
neighbor towns not found on maps. Once-a-day pit stops at Home Depot and Sherwin Williams. The

green hilltops become visible when the sky is a pallet of paint. The sun descends west of the ridge line. 
The labor of using one’s body, getting hands dirty and clothes caked in paint is evident: human is nature.

A missing element in the universities and government circles across this nation. If this work is the only 
job left for felons, then we need more people to be comfortable with hand tools. There are too many

people trapped in the system as it is. The solution isn’t more felons but more awareness our hands are 
meant to build. I set my camp in the Umpqua National Forest and drive into town for work. A Bureau

Land Management road tucked in the dense brush but close enough to hear the flow. Sometimes on long 
days we sleep in the houses we paint. We leave before the sun rises. A gibbous moon waning. The

eastbound river coiled like a rattle snake around the city center. We prep the paint sprayer. Unwind the 
guns. The other guys show up smoking cigarettes and drinking red bull. Brandon gets out of the car with a

limp. Coughs phlegm. Slowly inches across the yard as if detected land mines. I ask him what happened. 
Jumped off the ladder he says. There are a lot of things you can get away with on a job site but jumping

isn’t one of them. Will exits the truck lighting another cigarette. The spark of his flame highlights the sun 
peaking above the valley. He inhales. I am unsure if smoke exits or condenses. My fingers are numb.

Chickadees converse out the pane window. Scrub jays sing hymns atop Quaking Aspen and Golden 
Chinquapin. Buzz buzz buzz. The guys tease Brandon while he shoots a grin that reveals his gapped teeth.

Jumped because of a bee? I ask. A wasp he replies. 17 years in prison and he risks his body jumping 2 
stories. Real tough guy.


VII.

In winter I followed a man’s eviction into homelessness. With another journalist we documented his 
decades long deterioration of mental health and non-social compatibility. When we met him he was

holed up in an office space in old town. The last floor overlooking the Denny's. We entered into the 
operations of his mind. There was a narrow pathway that snake coiled around obsolete electronics and

computer monitors connected to security cameras. The path ended on a makeshift bed atop bent crates not 
able to withstand the weight of a body. Black-eyed and grey-ponytailed. Underarm stains. After the court

dates we met him in parking lots. Asleep in his PT Cruiser filled to the ceiling with the last of his
remnants. He was just one of a thousand plus shuffling the late-night street dance of uncertainty and

survival. In spring I walked into the prison. I entered a classroom where the whiteboards held quotes from
Thoreau and Shakespeare. I interviewed men pursuing a degree amidst riot gear and jumpsuits. Those

were mere distractions. Illusions. Shiny weaponries to intimidate. But they were students. First and
foremost. Incarceration came second. Their dedication proved that. A prison which the media and law

enforcement for decades misnamed. Labeled incorrectly. Sold lies to the public like Hitler Youth 
propaganda. I witnessed the first graduation from such a place. I cried for the first time in such a place.

I walked out freely for the first time in such a place. In summer, I received positive comments on a story 
for the first time. Fire captains and fire fighters paying respect to those incarcerated at fire camps

on the front line. A job until recently barred felons. A job until recently said you could risk your life 
fighting fires but when you're released you flip burgers. A job until recently only made a few cents on the

dollar. If it weren’t for prison fire camps the state would burn up. If it weren’t for thousands-year-old 
prescription burns by the indigenous the state would burn up. If it weren’t for us radicals the state would

burn up. In autumn, I wrote a story about a former lifer from Yurok who sang so beautifully that my 
dying friend laid peacefully for the first time since sickness. His incarceration took him back to his roots.

His hands created canvases we only dream of. The story included context to a crime committed so young. 
A generation of genocide and trauma expelled from the very government that deemed their humanity

illegal. A police officer once said of me that journalists are like cops without backbones. He told this to a 
source who he threatened. At the time I felt enraged. But that’s why I became one. I agreed with him.

Except I’ve never met a police officer with a backbone. Just a garter belt that kept him from falling over.


VIII.

October intensive study. Autumn Zen practice period. Semi-bruised apples scattered across front yard. 
Shattered pits. Crow pecked seeds. Unfinished fence post. Dogen’s Genjokoan chanted by candlelight.

Kokyo drummed to breath. Chest inflates. Stomach introverts to spine. Right hand cupped below left. 
Thumbs lightly touch. Eyes gazed half slit pierced low. Zabuton disappears into an ocean of space.

Waves subside. Watcher leaves the station. Singing bowl echoes against Manjushri swords and 
Avalokitesvara palms. Maylie Scott prayer for the world grasped around the circle. The last leaf falls.

We depart the Forest Temple for the Green Dragon. Soryu-ji. Harvest season near an end. Pumpkins atop 
wooden benches. It is my first time temporarily living in a Zen temple. My teacher would say

there’s no such thing. My obaachan frequently visited one in Hokkaido before the war. During the war 
she visited one on the main island. After the war the visits stopped. When I was incarcerated, my

okaasan would visit one along the delta before visits. I saw her face in this temple’s Kokyo. Their 
cadence similar. The movement of light nimble steps like a swan gliding across water. The first night I

followed the path of the full moon towards the eastern parking lot. A coyote darted from the mountain 
trail that leads above the farm. Our eyes locked. I bowed my head. She disappeared when I put my

cigarette out. Early morning meditation followed by silent breakfast. Work period of picking thorn 
bush...in attachment blossoms fall, and in aversion weeds spread. We divert original watershed source

long dry from decades of cow trampling. I see no cow, just the evidence of old ranch hands digging in a 
place originally sat at by Miwok. I contemplate my original home during evening meditation. None of

my ancestors lived in this country for very long. All from somewhere else. Somewhere no longer in 
existence. What would have happened to this plot if the Buddhist temple didn’t save it? I often ask

myself questions I will never know the answer to. It keeps my curiosity fresh. A prime ingredient for 
joyful effort. After lunch we continued study. Our visiting sangha embraced in new eyes. Wooden

floors. Rice paper walls. Old relics that reflect back your true nature. You notice it when you achieve 
something. But the saying here is work hard, accomplish nothing. I enjoy staring at walls. The more I

do it the more I realize the world is easier to move around in. The people I sit with are all from 
somewhere else. None of us are from here. There’s meaning behind that. But I don’t search for it. The

coyote meets me every night for my nightly vice. We don’t say much. Words aren’t needed. A few 
breaths shared. I bow. She disappears. The stars twinkle. The moon wanes. A cloud swims by. Sea salt

caught in the breeze. I leave part of me in the zendo. Gate gate para gate parasamgate bodhi svah!


IX.

I met him in the jail. Tall, thin frame. 50s jet back hair. Country singer sideburns. Baby face. It was my 
first time in this jail. Over capacity but for once I wasn’t led underground. I had the unfamiliar privilege

of using the same door the guards use. It would be a lie if I said the basement entrance didn’t entice me. I 
was here for other purposes. To talk about education. A means to divert handcuffs to gowns. Felonies

to degrees. A cell to a classroom. He walked up and already knew me. He was facing hard time but his
stance told you otherwise. His laugh reminded me of a road trip I took when I was younger fueled by

hallucinogens. He reminded me of the younger brother I never had. He reminded me of people I sit next 
to at coffee shops. We talked routine. We talked music. We talked poetry. The echo against concrete

brought me back to every jail I woke up in. Every jail I saw a fight in. Every jail I played gin rummy in. 
They all smell the same. You never abandon such an experience. His crime was a case of terrible luck.

Non malicious. A situation I found myself in many times but the butterfly flew south and his flew north. I 
wrote him letters because it was like writing to myself. A journal entry on a cold thunderous night. Empty

room. Empty house. Empty street. An attempt to reveal the optimism while realizing you never had a 
friend to tell a secret to. When I left the jail, a friend called me. Ironically, he was just released from a

short stint of solitary confinement. His crime was a manic episode. His crime was having a natural 
psychological disorder. His crime was doctor prescribed medication side effects. His crime was nothing

except for interacting with a police officer who was trained to kill by any means necessary. Why do we 
have police? If you really think about the question the answer slips away. Further and further. My

friend was transported into another reality, mentally, while locked in a cell naked, physically. They left 
him there for 30 days. In his own head. In their esprit brisant. I remember when I was told I couldn’t

eat the noodles from a Chinese kid at a correctional facility I was at. Even though I looked like him. I 
remember we had a competition of sketching dragons we thought would be best as a tattoo. I

remember having to repeat my ethnicity in front of gangs that spat prejudices. I still have the Chinese 
kid’s drawing. It’s hung by a tack above my secretary's desk. I still ate his noodles. I still played cards

with every race. I left that place more Asian than when I entered. How does that happen you ask? Just 
trust me unless you’d like to see the inside for yourself. I left that place with more felonies on my

record, a state debt for taking up space, and a tattoo that reads BUDDHIST across my knuckles.


X.

It was a frost-tipped morning when the Aleutian cackling geese, shorebirds and waterfowl migrated south. 
Disappeared over the docked crabbing boats. Audrey and I followed a Cooper’s hawk towards

the peninsula. Thin strip of land between the bay and its runoff. A lone kayaker entered the fog. 
Fishermen tied lines atop the wooden bridge. A run-down mill. Little kids ran barefoot across the

abandoned train track. A few hitchhikers headed south. We stumbled through a tunnel of Sitka spruce and 
beach pine. Emptied onto soft sand dunes of Manila. I saw myself as a child tumbling down like I

used to in Marina. The Cooper’s hawk dropped a feather on the front porch off a side street. The door 
opened in zeal. Mike and Sis welcomed us like old friends. Comrades. Their children. We had been

searching for them our entire lives without realizing it. Bronx bred jazz and old-timey enthusiasts with 
revolutionary minds. Custom-built record shelves that reached to the top of high-built ceilings.

Biographies of Miles Davis and the Zapatistas filled rows next to the dining table. A wooden atrium of 
warmth, love and music notes. The kitchen smelt of exotic spices. A cloud of steam exiting a pan of

stewed beans. A bowl of salad picked fresh from the garden. We spoke of politics. Worldly affairs. South 
American coups. The Golden State Warriors. They moved here in the 80s. New York to the

southern west coast to the northernmost tip. To counterbalance the New York City streets. Sis worked in 
childcare from the east to the west. Mike was a master carpenter. Like my grandfather, who taught me

what a union card holder meant. Mike built the house. A true craftsman. A dying breed. Both of them. 
They protested at the university during Reagan's foreign policy in South America. Too bad he was only

acting as a president. Mike told us over dinner his experience working on a coffee farm. Doing his part. 
Sis told us of her radio show. Queen of the airwaves. Momma bear of the oldies breaking through

prison walls. I met the Earth poet I was told to find in their home. Old friends. Old comrades. Old 
activists. I thought I knew anarchy. I thought I knew place. I thought I knew what it meant to defy

government. The Earth poet set me straight. I learned of economics and the price of a redwood forest. I 
learned to chip away at local politics. I learned small collectives with equal voices is a true

dissident way. I was told to write a poem about a tree while sitting against a tree without speaking of a 
tree. It’s been a few years spending half the weekend breaking bread around their table. Stoking the

fire. Reading decades old letters. Reliving the past. Listening to old cassettes of long-gone poets.

Tony Wallin-Sato is a Japanese American who works with formerly/currently incarcerated individuals in higher education. He is also a freelance journalist covering the criminal (in)justice system through the lens of his own incarcerated experience. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing and was the winner of the Jody Stultz Award for Poetry in the 2020 edition of Toyon Literary Magazine. His first chapbook of poems, Hyouhakusha: Desolate Travels of a Junkie on the Road, was published in 2021 through Cold River Press. His first book of poems, Bamboo on the Tracks: Sakura Snow and Colt Peacemaker, was selected by John Yau for the 2022 Robert Creeley Memorial Award and is forthcoming. His work is featured in Cultural Daily; The AAWW: The Margins; Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine; Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and Neon Door. Wallin-Sato's work comes out of the periphery and supports the uplifting of voices usually spoken in the shadows. All he wants is to see his community's thoughts, ideas and emotions freely shared and expressed.