Polar Brokers in Yale’s SAGE Magazine

It was an honor to have three Polar Brokers drawings published as cover art for SAGE Magazine which is published by the Yale School of Forestry & Environmental Studies. Below is the entire publication starting out with the my work on the back cover.

Adbusters publishes The Red Pill

Published in the May/June 2010 edition of Adbusters, #89.
Preview below.

[issuu width=550 height=367 pageNumber=10 showHtmlLink=false printButtonEnabled=false backgroundColor=%23222222 documentId=100415102818-e8e92eb47e9347caadf7267531e69353 name=adbusters_89_web_preview_2 username=adbusters tag=politics unit=px id=5cd00684-c16f-d4aa-1745-cca98bca0944 v=2]

From the original post:

Culture Vultures

Blood sweat and tears
For too many years.
They took us from our land.
Sold us lies with a smile and a hand.

For hundreds of years we dreamed of this.
Etched and painted white faces.
Passed our stories down to our children.
We could have never prepared

For the pain and suffering the future held.
Forced into sand boxes in far off lands.
The trail was far too long for any man.
So they gave us alchohol to forget.

Now we drink too much with no hopes of employment.
We try to pass our culture down to our youth.
But they leave as soon as they can, to seek their truth.
Living a life of ghostly memories knowing

That their ancestors once lived proud and free.
This land was ours before any white man was to see.
As they make dream-catchers to find themselves.
As they sweat out their poisons from their tumor cells.

They have taken our culture and ate it like vultures.
Regurgitated it back to whomever would eat it.
We saw this coming but we did not approve it.
There was no stopping the white man in the end.

Now they take tours of our holy places and think of our spirits.
They see our burial mounds and think of our magic.
Tears still flow from the trail we were forced to veer.
We watch now as they destroy the world, how tragic.


In Your Eyes

a note in one’s hand.
tucked away to be read again.
words to remind one of love.
a time before the world begin to boil.
when children were tucked into bed from above.
so much food children did not eat.
a time when children would rather have treats
than to eat a good dinner.

now years later i unfold this letter.
tucked in my pocket i re-read its warning.
i think of the life i have lived within.
how i have shut off from everything again.
turned a blind eye from all the death.
walked over bodies to seek food with less.
this letter was written before all of this.

now i can look back and read fully.
the warning that was told with love.
a father hoping to help guide and help steer.
even from death his words help make this clear.
as this was all predicted for many many decades.
even back then humanity struggled.
all the writing was on the wall.

but as soon as one wall fell another grew tall.
food and water did become scarce.
oil prices did rise over night as we drove from place to place.
vehicles were abandoned along the highways.
now used as shelters for plants and strays.
unemployment the norm everything closed down.
no one knew how to farm or use their hands.

clicking a mouse did not help grow real food on land.
the grid went down as the note did warn.
my father told me to take joy in the moment.
i now know we are the last generation.
no new children born into this once great nation.
i sit here on this mountain watching this sunrise.
the clouds are beautiful dad, as i think of your eyes.

A response to: Letter to the Last Generation

My Beloved Land

The job of a dictator isn’t that easy.
So I write this to help you understand.
I have to be tough and kick skulls and slap hands
As my people ask for their universal rights.
I throw them dollars while taking pills.
But there is no food or water left to borrow or steal.

Four decades later what do I see.
Lots of delusional youth looking up at me.
Poisoned by their psychedelic pop.
Not knowing that I’m all they’ve got.
I hear this nonsense of a war going on
I see adoring fans in my beloved land.

Like so many dictators before me.
I will leave this world as I see.
No amount of reality may you tell
And I will go to paradise as well.
Surrounded by all I have created here.
For an eternity this ground will swell.

For all the oil milked and shipped away.
For all the blood spilt here today.

Riding Fixies

All rights reserved by Farl

Sitting in our homes, blocked off in our foam
environment. Contained and reclaimed.
All physical friends long gone.
Memories from childhood gone wrong.
When we all drove our separate ways.
Relocating across country to follow our dreams.
Trying to stay in touch but it never seems
to happen, the way we want it to.

We all have now ventured online.
We all have built up our digital tribes.
Many collecting friends like pennies.
Hoarding them in bottles for hard times to cash in.
To shoot a tweet or message of a loss or a win.
There is a new generation that has only known this.
Has never known life before a text messaged hug or kiss.
And they do not question.
They have adapted and will reinvent.
They will find that the tribe they built has no limits.
Because they are tribe builders. Leaders of connection.

Paradigm shifted so quickly they knew no reflection
of how the good old days were before all of this.
They are geotagging their status updates as we reminisce.
They are blogging the next big invention. Are you listening?
Their tribes form and collapse at will with intention.
Passion depleted and grown as quickly as political campaigns.
Beliefs and hopes killed like terrorists’ bombs on planes.
The revolution will be on facebook. It will be liked and
shared on an iPad. Making a text message donation
to a cause or a fad.

Drinking beer, riding fixies while whistling dixie.

For the Greyhounds

cuts in education
cuts in healthcare
teachers need nothing
so let’s be fair.

let’s cut more jobs.
let’s take away trains.
let’s take away planes.
let’s cut the arts.

let’s cut all that makes us think and be smart.
let’s cut anything that helps us use our hearts.
let’s cut the cutters who create the cuts.
let’s cut all those high paying jobs for the poor.

after all that is what the middle class is for.
let’s cut the green jobs for our future.
dismantle the unions who hold our bleeding sutures.
let’s cut all of this and then cut some more.

for China will soon pass us their offering plate.
these cuts are far too late to the starting gate.
greyhounds can’t catch the rabbit who is long gone.
as the Terracotta Army waits patiently for its pawn.

Eleven from Twenty Seven

Round man stuffed holding his iPad to read.
Reading his made in China RSS feed.
Sits next to wife reading the paper.
Her face covered, no eyes to see.

Woman says, it says here China is winning.
Man says, not if I have anything to do with it.
Woman says, they will be number one soon.
She speaks out loud the simple math to gloom.

Eleven from twenty seven.
Eleven from twenty seven.
Why is this so hard for me to imagine.
Is it 13?

No deeeeear …… it is not.
Man mumbles while checking his stocks.
Both sitting and waiting for the doc.
You know the price of steak is too high.

I’m going to have to get me a good paying job.
There is no way we can keep eating like hogs.
China is winning it is easy to see.
Man catches imports from China like fleas.

Woman can’t do simple math to realize our demise.
She is worried because she will still be alive.
America is losing because of people like these.
So content to sit and be pleased.