Introducing Luis Rivas, seems like introducing my favourite writer I got to know this year … his writing, work and attitude towards the world so close to my heart, my vision of the world. I can only recommend the reader to read his poetry fully, addictive, beautifull, heartbreaking but always with reason. I present you the writings from our new non-fiction editor, Luis Rivas … I can only say to Luis: I can’t wait till your work is published and when that time comes, I’ll be one of the first to buy. Enough praise, let the marvel begin!
Bio
Luis Albert Rivas is from Van Nuys, California. He started writing some time in high school, mainly poetry. He got more into literature after reading stuff like Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, Louis-Ferdinand Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bells Toll. At community college, he gravitated toward Journalism and even enjoyed a brief stint on the school’s newspaper, but found it too difficult to write about things that did not interest him in the least. After eventually dropping out of college, he started working full time at a porn shop, which has turned out to be an endless source of inspiration and at the same time dread. When he’s not working, Luis tries to stay politically involved with serious leftist organizations such as the FMLN, the Salvadoran political party (although Luis is Mexican, not having a single drop of Salvadoran blood in him, he admires and supports this political and social force). He supports many credible organizations such as; the Communist Party, USA, the UFW (United Farm Workers) and the SOAW (School of the Americas Watch). He is not a member of any organization as of yet but is still shopping around. Luis believes in many things but most importantly the need to help others using whatever talent or skills one possesses. He is currently living in Echo Park with his girlfriend and their two indoor cats and half-a-dozen outdoor stray cats. He is planning on putting together two books some time in the near future, a collection of poems and a collection of short stories. That’s about it for now.
Five questions of a lifetime.
1) How does your work and political view influence your writing?
My work and my political views are my work. It’s kinda weird to imagine what the hell I would write about if I wasn’t working at a sex store and studying Marxism. I used to not be political but everything I wrote still had this urban setting and spoke about societal issues like homelessness, drug abuse, prostitution and all kinds of fucked up shit. The more politically aware I became, the sharper my ideology got, the better my writing got – I think so anyway.
2) You describe the terrors of life and death and the anxiety in between … and you succeed very well. Based on observation or based on experience in life?
Both. Always both. I consider myself relatively young in life and in the writing community so much of what I write about is educated speculation, some is direct experience but most is just me flexing the muscles of my insight.
I write about people going crazy because I see it every day at work, on the street and I always try to put myself in that person’s shoes to try to understand how someone’s mind works – the bum talking to himself, living in his mind, pissing his pants, begging for change or someone snapping and letting that inner rage take over.
I observe the randomness all around me. Mistakes. Chaos. Stuff like that.
3) How did you start your writing, which motivation haunted you to write on social topics?
Well, I first started writing poems some time in high school, I think. I don’t know why, really. I used to be real shy and insecure so I guess I was trying to communicate ideas and thoughts to others because I couldn’t speak them out loud. I then wrote some essay in English class and my teacher, Mr. Gardner, praised it, called it one of the best in the class and even used it as an example for the class. That made me feel good, that I had this talent
People that write are people that observe.
The more I wrote, the more I observed my surroundings, my hometown Van Nuys, the drivebys, the drunks, the illegal immigrants and hookers on the corners, both waiting for work, my family life, my younger brother’s association with gang life, prison, drugs, our society, our culture. It was all there and I took notes.
Then the big immigration movement and marches started happening and I took part in them, met some individuals and organizations that helped me develop my political ideology. And I continued writing.
4) Let’s say we’ve been saved and hell follows with it … A more personal question, your writing seems so familiar and yet brings admiration for the way you brought it, the emotion to which the reader can relate. Has life taught you or did you teach life?
I don’t focus on being original in writing; I just try not to be too cliché. A little cliché is ok. You just gotta measure it out. More than anything, I try to be honest in what I write, even when I’m fictionalizing – if that makes any sense.
I taught life to suck my dick, BAM. I wish I could say that, that I conquered the chaos, the absurd, the unconquerable. But what can anyone teach life? Life is teaching all of us, always.
5) A question for everyone: when you publish how will you publish and why?
I need to put out at least two books, a collection of short stories and one of poems. I have a list of things I need to do before I die. One was to go to a country in Latin America and help out in an effective way; I recently went to El Salvador and participated in the 2009 elections as an International Observer. The other thing on my to-do-before-I-eat-shit-and-die list is to write at least two little books. So yea.
I send manuscripts out as often as I can make the time to organize them and find same-minded publishers. I’ve entered a couple of writing contests this year too with the feature prize of being published, so hopefully I win.
Poems
80 Grit Sandpaper
we would start
off with 80 grit
sandpaper and
finish the job with
finer 100 or 200
grit paper to make
it look nice and
smooth. we were
cousins with the
same name, luis y
luis. we waited
inside the cemetery
in zacatecas,
mexico in the early
gray morning with
all the poor kids
and ran up to
strangers and asked
them if they needed
a grave cleaned and
sanded they’d be
stricken with
grief, flowers in
hand, making their
way to the grave of
a dead husband or
father or mother or
son and we’d give
them a good deal:
40 pesos (around 5
dollars back then)
per grave. we’d
spend anywhere from
30 minutes to about
an hour on the
bigger gravestones
sanding the black
and green mold off,
twisting and
pinching the paper
to reach inside the
crevices of the
engravings and
corners, our skinny
fingers guiding the
paper inside the
detail. it was
hard work, and we
were too young to
feel anything. We
did our job and
afterward we spent
the money in the
videogame arcade
and bought ice
cream. we were
smarter than our
parents because we
understood death,
being so close to
birth, and we knew
that life made
sense like that,
sanding graves for
pesos to play
streetfighter 2 and
eat lemon flavored
ice cream. all the
poor kids did it.
it’s a very stable
career; poor kids
will continually be
born and graves
will never run out.
Published in Unlikely Stories, December 2006.
http://www.unlikelystories.org/rivas1206.shtml
Act
imagine
this poem is a gun
that each word is
a bullet
by itself
it will do nothing
but in the right hands
it can serve a purpose
and in the wrong hands
the same still holds true
now imagine
a dozen of these
in the right hands
and that there is only one
target, a shared aim
through violent means
like nechayev
like geronimo
like crazy horse
like mandela
like the fighters of algeria
it can cause change
imagine if the impulse
to write a poem was replaced
with the urge to organize
to load a clip and go after
those that want nothing
more than to exploit
plunder and capitalize
off others, our misfortune
bank of america
goldman sachs
jp morgan & chase
citigroup
AIG
western hemispheric institute
for security cooperation
nafta, cafta
and our entire modern
market economy
a bullet in the head
of every CEO, board member
rapist, liar, plunderer
profiteer, office holder
imagine
that this poem is a gun
and that there are thousands of them
ready to change the face of the country
or at least scar it trying.
Aliens Who Barely Exist
_________ barely existed.
_________ wasn’t a US citizen,
not even human; _________ was
an illegal alien who had to change
his name many times; _________
had to lie about his address;
_________ had to lie about his birth
date; _________ had to change his
hair many times – from parting it
on the side, to slicking it all back,
to even shaving it off completely.
_________ was an ex-guerilla
in the civil war of El Salvador
back in the 80’s, and would never
be allowed to become a US citizen;
_________ saw friends die and kill,
shouting REVOLUCIÓN O MUERTE;
and after surviving something he
didn’t except to he was faced with
the ex-guerilla’s ultimate dilemma:
what now?
_________ served a few prison
terms; _________ was deported and
came back again with a new name, a
new haircut; _________ could only
find work in warehouses, factories,
bath houses and porno shops, places
that didn’t mind hiring aliens who
barely existed.
and _________ will keep running
and working, barely existing the entire
time, only finding peace in the
thought that wherever he is buried
his tombstone will finally reveal
his true birth date and maybe even
his true name.
Published in CounterPunch, Weekend Edition, Nov 13-15, 2009.
http://counterpunch.org/poems11132009.html
As I Wonder Why My Kitchen Knives are Missing
as i wonder why my kitchen
knives are missing, where
have they gone to, as i see
the sun setting in my rear-
view mirror, as i smell
burning plastic and worry
that it’s coming from my car,
i say to myself,
this makes sense.
as i grill a year-old frozen
turkey burger patty, watching
it turn grey, as i see a
nation joining together in
patriotic unity to deport,
discriminate, persecute and
hate illegal immigrants,
as i see little R’s, D’s and
I’s next to politicians
names, and hate them all
for perpetuating broken free
trade policies, for
perpetuating ruthless, self-
centered private interests,
and then i think about levis,
starbucks, american idol,
gap, economic stimulus
checks, the freedom to buy
water all the way from fiji,
and i say to myself,
yes, this makes sense.
as i pay $8 for a plate of
korean bbq beef and rice, as
i think about people keeling
over dead from hunger, as i
tip $3 for gratuity, as i see
nations expressing their
right to sovereignty, as i
see the united states calling
these same nations terrorist,
or terrorist supporters, as i
put $35 in my gas tank, as a
homeless man walks around the
city shitting his pants,
begging for spare change, as
i give a dollar to the one-
legged bum that lies about
fighting in ‘nam, as a 16-
year-old girl comes up to me,
prostitutes herself for drugs
or a place to sleep, as i
pull the cigarette from my
lips to tell her the way to
the shelter in sylmar, as i
give $149.15 each week for
taxes and other state/federal
deductions, as i give the
homeless 43-year-old guy
advice on putting together a
good resume, as i applaud the
religious for having the
courage to look away and say
that everything is as it was
meant to be, and how it will
be better when you’re dead,
as i take out the burnt grey
turkey burger patty, as i
think about shooting people
who refuse to think in the
better interest of others,
i say to myself
yes, this makes sense.
as my 26th birthday nears,
i hope it’s my last.
as i see my dad on his bike,
i ask about my brother;
why don’t you kick him out?
make him earn his own. as i
hear my stern, disciplinarian
dad tell me that he’s afraid
to kick my brother out
because at least this way,
him living at home, they know
where he is and he doesn’t
have to worry about
him dying in the street, as i
type, as i breathe, as i
wait, as i worry about my
relationship with my
girlfriend, questioning the
validity of my jealousies, as
i see everyone around me
completely surrendered to
their private routine,
consumed by life,
i think to myself,
i need to pay my cell phone
bill, $60.
Published in Thieves Jargon, August 2008, Issue # 172.
http://www.thievesjargon.com/workview.php?work=1194
Dreams of The Contractor
i have these dreams
where i finally find and confront
the private contractor who never
paid me or my brother for a couple
weeks of cement mixing, painting
plastering and general construction
work, where i try hard in controlling
my breathing, trying not to let the
rage take over, how i coolly explain
to him that we either handle this by
immediate payment or i stick a
knife in his throat
and he says that he’s sorry and
that he doesn’t have the money
and his eyes turn into deer eyes
and i can’t stop from shaking
feeling my anger taking over
almost crying with rage and relief
stabbing him, thrusting my pocket
knife into his neck as deep as i can
picturing my grip completely going
through his throat, searching his deer
eyes, soft and almond shaped
watching his sick, cheating, greedy
exploiting life leave his body, his
eyes turning gray and dull, then
pulling the knife out and doing it
again, glad, relieved that i’m doing
this, that it has come down to this
scenario, that it ended with him not
willing or wanting to pay because
i have wanted this
but i am hoping, hoping i don’t find
him but secretly i am wanting nothing
else more and i’ve been carrying
a knife ever since
Good Writing
good writing pisses me off
a good poem, simple in its form
but awesome in its impact, that has
its hooks in you from the beginning
and ends with you backing away hurt
epiphanies swimming in your brain
like electric eels, stinging at all
the right places
or a good short story that can keep
a good momentum, sustaining it
like a symphony, fluctuating with its
ferocity but never failing and finally
ending perfectly with all the characters
different, the same or dead
or a good book that you read in silence
that questions the very way you’ve
been living your life, that challenges you
to look at things differently, to drink,
to smoke, to fuck, to love more – or less
to vote or organize or yell or set off
explosives in government building parking lots
good writing pisses me off
the competition is discouraging
In El Salvador
in El Salvador
there are heavily-armed
security guards in front
of Burger King
Honda dealerships
and luxury hotels
while the stench from
a rotting run-over dog
on the street saturates
the hot, tropical air
and the shoeless kids
that perform fire-blowing
and juggling at street
intersections smell this
and debate on whether
they could eat it without
getting sick or die
but eventually decide
to keep hustling for
spare change, their feet
so black from walking
on the asphalt that they look
like they’re wearing black
dress socks
in El Salvador
it is considered a luxury
to hang out in shopping
malls occupied by
transnational companies
that do not need to
worry about U.S. federal
minimum wage laws
paying Salvadorans
$10 a day – what some
Californians make an hour
their only worry being
about the burgers
the new Civic models
the new HD widescreen
in the lobby of the
American hotel
their automatic rifles
and shotguns always ready
and loaded, aiming
at the heads of desperate
hungry, shoeless kids
asking for spare change
threatening the quiet peace
of a country’s genocide.
My Heart is from Mexico but My Blood is as Mexican as a Taco Bell Burrito
i confuse people;
when latinos approach me,
struggling with english,
they are surprised that i’m
answering back in spanish,
and so they ask where i’m
from: españa, chile? no, i say,
but close. ah, ok, they say,
seeing me sipping yerba mate;
argentina, brasíl? no, i say,
but close. ah, ok, they say,
hearing me occasionally use
central american slang; el salvador?
no, i say, but close. and they
hear me listening to cúmbias,
mambos, spanish rock, looking at
me, at my light skin, at my
straight brown hair, not knowing
my mother’s red hair and hazel eyes,
not knowing i was a blonde baby,
naming all the countries in latin
america, starting down south and
moving up to and passing central
america, running out of names and
finally saying, ah, méxico? and i say,
no, but close; i’m from van nuys,
california; but my heart, that’s
from méxico, as well as all of those
places; though my blood, polluted by
hollywood and community college
english classes and american fast food,
that’s as mexican as a taco bell burrito.
Napoleon
sitting at the BURGUNDY ROOM
on Cahuenga
drinking with a friend
trying to forget
the fact that we’re
at the BURGANDY ROOM
on Cahuenga
a girl comes up to me
touches my shoulder
and says NAPOLEON
i say: what?
she says: NAPOLEON
i say: what?
she says: oh, you
look like a friend
of mine: NAPOLEON.
you know, from
BILL AND TED’S
EXCELLENT ADVENTURE.
i say: i look like
NAPOLEON?
she goes on: no, you know,
BILL AND TED’S
EXCELLENT ADVENTURE!
when they go back in time
and pick up NAPOLEON.
my friend doesn’t look
anything like him but
he’s French and you
look like my friend,
NAPOLEON.
i say: oh.
she says something about
saving her a seat
and leaves.
my friend gets up
to go to the bathroom
a girl takes his seat
a beautiful girl
takes his seat
and I am stunned but
I say nothing
because of many reasons
five minutes pass
she gets up and her
friend takes the seat
her less attractive
slightly bigger friend
takes the seat
i promptly tap her
on the shoulder
and let her know
that my friend’s
in the bathroom
will be out soon
but she could sit
there until he gets out
it’s okay
then
she gets upset
points out the fact
that her friend
had been sitting here
for at least 5 minutes
etc. — accuses me of lying
my friend comes out
she is still upset
but gets up anyway
all i have left now
is the hope or delusion
that the girl
from before
will come back and
think that i am
her NAPLOEON.
somewhere along the line
everyone gave up on the truth.
No One Knows that I’m Mexican
No one knows that I’m Mexican.
Even Mexicans can’t tell. It’s a secret.
Going to Mexican bars, the juke box blaring
Vicente Fernandez gets turned down, the pool
games are paused and I get dirty looks from
everyone, the painters, the gangsters,
the cowboys – judgments in their hearts.
The bartenders avoid me; I am discriminated
against for being white and in the wrong
place. When the bartenders finally speak,
it’s broken English and I answer back in Spanish;
and they are always astonished, wondering how
this gringo can speak such good Spanish,
es good, es good, hablas bien!
But they still prefer speaking English
to me and they still resent me for figuring out
their secret language so I always give up and
answer back in English, wishing my skin darker,
my ethnicity more obvious.
Going to Mexican restaurants, going
up to the counter, the short dark girl with
the apron says hi, redy tu oder? and I’m
jealous of her skin tone and I say, si
and give my order: dos tacos de carne
adobada con una horchata, grande.
And she is shocked, relieved but shocked.
The cooks in the back say mira, el gringo
habla bien as they piss in my beans.
Habla Bien is my new name.
No one knows that I’m Mexican.
Even Mexicans can’t tell. It’s a secret.
But I’ve been in jail and I own a pair of
Nike Cortez and used to play soccer and
I was apart of the anti-187 walkouts in the
90’s while I was in Jr. High but
I did get a D in Spanish class, twice.
When the cops pull me over and write me a
ticket they look at the picture and the last
name on my ID, to determine my race
and check off the appropriate box on the ticket,
never getting it right, checking off Caucasian/white.
My name is Luis Alberto Rivas,
not Lewis or Louis or Louise.
My parents came from a city called Jerez
in a state called Zacatecas in Mexico.
I was born in Los Angeles but I was never
injected with Caucasian blood.
I want to be cremated when I die;
and as I burn, the proper skin tone
will finally show itself and I will die
darker and truer.
Published in Unlikely Stories, December 2006.
http://www.unlikelystories.org/rivas1206.shtml
The Arrangement
a roach crawls
across my hand;
i watch its antennae
stretching out,
cautiously weighing out
the next move.
i feel pity for it
and myself, but
mostly for it –
our arrangement,
our circumstances –
nothing is under
our control except
our choice to pick
what philosophy
we decide to
be tricked by.
The Children in Front of the Church
He came into
the porn shop
rapidly blinking
his eyes
looking weak
and sick
his head trembling
violently
a clear
soft-brown and
innocent face
of 12 years
“Can I see some ID
please?”
as he showed
me his Mexico City ID
revealing
the actual
age of 20
I caught his eyes
brown and vulnerable
and I became
12 again in Mexico
walking pass
the begging families
with their children
and their skinny
outstretched arms
asking for
spare change
in front of the
old Catholic churches
unable to look
in their eyes
I walked away
I remembered
how sad I felt
how sad it was
being
too young
back then
to have any money
to give them
I thought about life
how big and empty
everything was
being 12
how all of us
sufferers and
sympathizers
shared
the same end
and how badly
we all had it
I remembered
it seeming unfair
in the streets
of Mexico
back then
at an early age
and meeting it with
directionless anger
because I couldn’t
put the blame
on anyone
or anything
and then the
children disappeared
into the streets
the churches dissolved
into a grey Mexican sky
and I became
a 21-year-old clerk
at a porn shop
staring
at a spastic
20-year-old
with a
12-year-old’s face
he saw my eyes
regain awareness
and become glossy
with hesitant tears
and he blinked
twitched
turned around
and walked into
the video room
still twitching
and blinking
his head jolting
into unvarying nods
he picked up a
movie case
en español titled
“Adolescentes Con
Senos Turgentes”
strained to control
the twitching
forcing his eyes
to just
stay OPEN
and as the nodding
stopped momentarily
a smile
slowly grew
on his face
he brought the movie
to the counter
not knowing
the language
but having memorized
the routine
and I wanted
to talk
to him about
Luis J. Rodriguez
Pablo Neruda
Octavio Paz
Pedro Pietri
Federico Garcia Lorca
and the small children
in front of
the churches
and about my family
my father
my brother in jail
and how lost
I feel
I wanted to
let it all
spill out
to cry and confess
my awesome fear
of everything
and how frustrated
I am with myself
that I can only convey
what I truly feel through
the ambiguity of
overly sentimental
unread and failed
narrative poems
but I didn’t
“Three dollars for
half an hour
per movie
tres dolares por
media hora
por cada pelicula
you pay inside
the booth
you’ll be in
booth 4
si, cuatro
need any change?
cambio?
ok, thank you
gracias
here’s your remote
yes, you need
a remote to
watch the movie
booth 4
keep it clean
thank you”
he squinted
his head jerking
harder now
nodding upon
the nodding
agreeing
and anxious
he took the remote
and walked away
from me
The Editors
i know what online literary magazine
editors do on weekend mornings
without hangovers or girls to worry
about or to kick out of bed or to
try to frantically remember someone
to call from jail for bail money or to
try to figure out where the fuck
you fuckin parked the fuckin car
editors wake up at around 9 am
thinking that that is sleeping in
they make eggs, sunny side up
turkey bacon, lightly fried
with extra virgin olive oil, turn
on the coffee pot (the new filter
preemptively put in last night)
these same editors will turn on
the computer while petting their cats
with gay names, rubbing their backs
and log into their e-mail accounts
drooling over all the new meat, all
the submissions that they will have
to devour and slash through
and once all their eggs, sunny side up
and turkey bacon, lightly fried with
extra virgin olive oil, are eaten
and when most of the submissions are
read, criticized, some completely skipped
over altogether, and the rest placed at the
bottom of the pile to be read weeks or
months later and eventually forgotten,
they will place their fork and knife
down and get dressed for the day –
just like that, having taken lives,
some more deserving than others,
having eaten them, ingested them,
digesting their overly-crafted words into
flatulence, just like that they will walk
among us, guiltless:
cannibals in daylight.
To Make Pancakes at 9 PM With Vegetable Oil Because You’re Out of Butter
it was an impulse
to make pancakes
at 9 PM
we were out of butter
so she was using
vegetable oil
that’s when
I heard her yell
the oil had splashed
on her left hand
and right foot
she was screaming
I told her to put
toothpaste on the burns
(something a friend’s
mom once said) (or
something I saw
on tv) (memories
and tv reruns
are hard to tell
apart) so she placed
the toothpaste
on the burns
then yelled LOUDER
she tried ice
and leaving her hand
under running water
but the pain was
intense and forever
so I went to Walgreens
and spent $15 on
burn relief creams
and that didn’t work
so I called
the paramedics
they came and looked
at her burns
2nd degree burn
on the left hand
1st degree burn
on the right foot
they took her away
and one of them looked
at me and said
is she your –?
i said –roommate
he said –Ok
they led her
out the door
her walking slowly
cautiously
each step intensifying
the pain
i thanked them
locked the door
and went back
to the tv
with a paper plate
filled with
cold pancakes
alone and happy
the reverberating
silence substituting
the memories of
her screams
What He Should’ve Said
(Dedicated to Teresa Mestizo)
when mexico’s election was stolen
by felipe calderon and vicente fox
and the entire national conservative party
with the help of the other corrupt
parties and organizations, when entire ballot
boxes were destroyed and disappeared
yes, the cameras were there and so
were the dissident groups and the students
the workers, the communists, the poor
always the poor, everyone ready and
waiting for something, for lopez obrador
running candidate of the center-leftist party
to say something but all that was said was
we do not want violence, let’s demonstrate
putting trust on the national/international media
and some strange belief that this cannot
happen, the people will not allow a stolen
election, but the people of mexico are used to this
to abuse, used to a beating, used to sleeping
without dreaming, used to the way the sky and
sidewalk blend together in common gray
used to talking about hope as if it were a rare
and mythical fruit, imaging its form and flavor
with so much desperation that if the
people of mexico weren’t so used to sadness
they would shed a tear, but no one cries anymore
they’re used to it, used to a dysfunctional government
where officials and leaders have been bought
and sold, working on bribes so much so that it’s
a sustainable and constant source of income
what lopez obrador should’ve said three years
ago when the people rallied behind him, awaiting
instructions, a response to the national congress
naming felipe calderon new president of mexico
what he should’ve said three years ago
what needed to be said in 2006 was this:
people, it is time to put down the peace signs
it is time to put down the bull horn, leave the
political pamphlets at home, please
people, it is time you pick up your rifle
and if you do not own one, go down to the
gas station, fill up a bucket and steal bottles
of alcohol, cut up a shirt and stuff it inside
make sure to leave enough out so that it gives you
time to throw it, load them alt into the back of your pickup
and drive it down to mexico city, down to the
presidential residence, down to the center of
corruption, line up the office holders, the bank CEOs
execute and kidnap every last robbing bastard
bomb the government buildings, symbols of deceit
of treachery nearly a century old
people, it is time we rise up and take back the
country for it has not been ours for more than
70 years; our system, down to its very core
including the electoral process, is broken, damaged
beyond repair, so let us substitute it all with a true
working democracy, made up and governed by the people
the working people, by the poor, by the indigenous
the teachers: a constituent assembly, guaranteeing
each a job, a home; promising national sovereignty
political self-determination, an end to our involvement
in NAFTA, banning the ability to be rich, a radical
dispersion of the national wealth
and many people will die in this transformation
but death is necessary and a part of the sacrifice
of change
for if we do nothing now, if we just roll over
it will only happen again each election, each president
perpetuating the false ghost of a dead democracy
“Promotional Piece”
Luis opted out for the promotional piece. He preferred to send you this message: I don’t have a website or anything to promote other than telling people to put pressure on their respective representatives to vote for health care reform WITH A PUBLIC OPTION, to close down the school of the americas, to vote for employee free choice act.
well im into reading, but im gonna make an exception cause ur my bro……. i got bored reading this article it would be better if there was pics