Category Archives: entertainment

It Kills Cancer | Greenfaith Ministry

It Kills Cancer | Greenfaith Ministry

http://greenfaithministry.com/blog/cannabis-kills-cancer/

It Kills Cancer
[MUST BE ADULT TO USE SITE]

FREE PDF BOOK about CANNABIS AND CANCER.

Breezy Keifair is a patron and has as much experience with Cannabis Oil as the Rev. She has given us permission to embed her tutorial works here if interested in healing on your own. In addition to being an oil expert, Breezy is a longtime cannabis activist, artist, and writer. Show some love by heading over to her blog and leaving some thanks for her work!

First, for beginners, here’s a FAQ:
https://kiefair.com/2012/10/29/faqs-about-phoenix-tears-therapy-for-the-beginner/

An In-Depth Look at Making Cannabis Cure Oil Easily at Home (set to The Wall!)

The “Large Batch” Method:
https://kiefair.com/2013/05/25/how-to-make-phoenix-tears/

How to Make Cannabis Oil Without Alerting the Neighbors!
https://kiefair.com/2014/03/10/how-to-make-cannabis-cure-oil-without-alerting-the-neighbors/

A powerful Youtube Playlist full of good info on Cannabis Oil / Phoenix Tears!

7 Responses to “It Kills Cancer”

BY BREEZY KIEFAIR FEBRUARY 13, 2015 – 8:43 PM

I am so honored that The oil making method I perpetuate (taught by Ronnie Lee Smith {RIP 2014} was awarded athishigh honor by having these links to the method added here as an outreach education for anyone with the will to learn to make the oil.
The #1 topic I get personal messages and calls about? My oil making methods and questions related to the treatment.
I have been with Greenfaith for many years, sometimes a quiet supporter, sometimes I donate, but in the beginning I was among the needy being helped by the good folks at Greenfaith. These links will lead you to my website and much more information. tons of links within links to read. The information is free to anyone willing to read it. Get some raw materials, and make a batch. You might just save the life of a loved one, give them more time than the doctor thinks, or at very least increase the quality of life as its quantity dwindles. I am honored by the words on this page that speak about me of course, but what really matters is passing on the method. Anecdotal evidence is so important in a climate where little real research is being done. This group of whole plant compounds is a healer of many ills. Learn to make it, feed your soul, then feed the oil to a sick loved one and watch them come back a ways from the precipice of death we all must fall from one day.

Pebbles, thank you for your kind words. It’s been a long hard road for me personally, but if the fruit of that road is giving the method I learned to empower the sick, then every step was worth it.
Thanks to Bill Bartlett and Rev Baker for honoring my oil making master, his method and my changes to it to customize it for smaller batches.

Reply

BY REV B BAKER FEBRUARY 14, 2015 – 3:35 PM

Yes breezy is a good oil maker, we have been donating material to her on and off since 2008; for her to make oil for herself and others! Praise and blessings through greenfaith!

Reply

BY DAVE CASSELL JUNE 5, 2015 – 3:36 AM

i love the lord and his people…i will be visiting now that i know he’ll be there…he always shows up in the smoke

Reply

BY HARRY HOUSTON OCTOBER 26, 2015 – 8:13 PM

I had an opportunity to spend some time with Rev Brandon Baker And several members of the Greenfaith Ministry; it was a true honor to meet people that are so dedicated to helping the sick that they put their personal freedoms on the line to do so.
The good people at Greenfaith Ministry make Holy Healing Oil derived from the Holy Cannabis Plant. And give it to the people who need it. The good people at Greenfaith Ministry have an impressive list of healing ranging from simple scratches to cancer.
How can this be anything less then Gods work?
I urge you to check out the Greenfaith Ministry and all the good they are doing.

Reply

BY BREEZY KIEFAIR NOVEMBER 19, 2015 – 11:15 PM

Yes, I’m a patron of greenfaith, I’m also fragile with my health. I’m willing to help anyone who needs it. It’s best to connect with me on Facebook, same user name or through my website kiefair.com

Reply

BY DIANA SEPTEMBER 29, 2016 – 2:57 AM

Such a good cause in life, to do the right thing to help and heal the sick. Thank you so very much for your courage and faith.

Reply

BY SANCHO GRACIA PEDRO JANUARY 29, 2017 – 6:14 AM

I want to specially thank Rick Simpson for saving my wife’s life with his healing oil. some years back my wife Rose was diagnosed with a deadly disease cancer of the lungs, we try all medication all to no avail, we also try to do the oil our selves but we were doing more harm than worse. until I saw a post on face book on how the cannabis oil had cured a cancer patient, I quickly emailed the mail: rev.420@greenfaithministry.com from that very moment we just have to give it a trier, instantly we got a reply from him asking us what the exact cancer problem that my wife Rose has….. He calculated the dosage for us, i think the dosage he calculated was 60 grams of the oil which we ordered plus 30 grams maintenance and also have body lotion and soap. He told us that if we need the donation we must meet the church elder(s)/leader(s) in person then pick it up or have it delivered, my wife Rose started the medication immediately just after a month of using Rick Simpson cannabis oil (FECO, RSO, HOLY HEALING OIL, etc), Rose is now free from cancer problem, she is living a healthy life my utmost priority of sharing this short testimony is for those that are suffering from my kind of cancer diseases or if your friend or family members are suffering from this deadly disease, please don’t die in silence there is a cure for your cancer today don’t waste anytime further you have to email some one for Rick Simpson Oil directly and save your live and the lives of others
Email: rev.420@greenfaithministry.com

 

 

 

 

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The Greenfaith community supports a wide range of outreach programs, including:

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Special Gift for those pledging $100/mo

The Church thanks all who donate at this level with a retreat in Avon, Colorado, right off I-70 in the middle of the ski resorts. Yes, there are smoking rooms available. 😉

We supply the lodging at our time-share, you do the rest! Thank you so very much for your support for our Church outreach!

 


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House of Mirrors

From the El Paso County Jail. There may be glitches while i learn WordPress. http://hipgnosis21.blogspot.com/2014/07/of-mirrors-june-2014-el-paso-county.html

WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 2014

House of Mirrors

House of Mirrors

26 June 2014

El Paso County Jail

Don’t freak out now, anyone. I’m still out of jail, pending appeal, as of today, 23 July 2014.

Sorry, no footnotes in the blogger. You can get them here
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1umk-RPyxoiQTPSS84Cp4sR80UAXFzsVRpuiRBVzrdNA/edit?usp=sharing

Pogo couldn’t have known the heft and resonance of his words: “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

I wrote a screed a while back, (Today’s Tom Sawyer), excoriating shitty Christian behavior. There’s still plenty to say about all that, and maybe some of it will come out here, but it’s not the point of this one. During that earlier rant, i promised to harp, eventually, about bad behavior on the part of pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, and some of my other natural affinity groups as well.

That isn’t it either. Or maybe it is. But not really. Not quite. I promised to write about the Fear, too, and nor is it that, though the Fear runs through it all. This is about a war.

Many members of of various of the groups on that funny little list i jotted just now recognize and will now openly state that there’s a war looming. They’re wrong about that much anyhow–the looming is all done and the fight is on. Right now. It’s been on for decades, (or maybe forever). I’m here “jotting” because that’s what one does in the county jail, where i am a political prisoner–a POW, really, though i prefer to think of myself as a prisoner of conscience–but maybe it’s a digression to say so. Or maybe not. Let’s explore this amalgam of notions a bit, and see if we can find out.

Here at the county jail one finds a  peculiarly refined microcosm of the way the dynamics of the variously conflicting groups involved in this bizarre  war interact, cleared of much of the dross of false civility that ordinarily circumvents the fight out on the sidewalk, at least here in the U.S.A.

I know Europeans here that want to skedaddle from this place and others afraid to come here because many of them can see the shitstorm brewing and it scares them. They often seem to see it more clearly than we Americans are able to do at least in part because our access to real news is barely over nil, of maybe because as outside observers they aren’t saddled with the cognitive dissonance we sorry brainwashed frogs that live in this hot-ass boiling lake must so often suffer. I don’t know. I hope they realize this pond holds us all.

Oddly enough, while the interactions at the county jail display some of the finer points of conflict in out absurdly labeled free society, they also show some reasons for hope. There are still lights burning.

“Fuck the Police!”

I don’t know how many times i’ve heard that phrase from some of my dearest friends. I’ve uttered them myself. Often. Sometimes at the top of my lungs. Sometimes it was far more personal: “Fuck you! That’s right, you, personally, whomever you may be in your opposition to me, my pursuits, my people. Maybe i should refer to the less common; “Fuck the Pigs,’ because the police are only a fractional representation of one segment, one camp of that particular overarching social entity the hippies were talking about when they began to disparage swine so badly as to label their opposition thusly in this odd existential war from whence the flesh and blood scrap derives.

“Battle lines are being drawn,” went the line from the Buffalo Springfield some fifty-ish years back. They’re pretty well drawn, now, though they resemble lines a three-year-old might scribble. The shit’s on. People are fighting. The skirmishes often feel like some kind of kids’ game though too, involving blindfolds and billyclubs. Maybe i can’t deny swinging a stick around myself, sometimes. Maybe that’swhat this is–a chance for me to look in the mirror a little, Maybe it’s because it’s hard to sit the game out when i keep getting hit in the head. Whatever. Let’s keep on through the maze and just hope we don’t smash too many mirrors.

During the Occupation we intrepids staged a few years back, (and some of us still engage–viva la revolución and all), my son and i traveled to Denver for the final push when the cops razed the encampment there. The scene that October of 2011 there in Denver was some shit this country hadn’t seen in over forty years maybe, where armored brigades of soldiers–not cops at all but stormtroopers–rolled on a huge, disparate group of unarmed citizens. It was tragic. And beautiful. Versions of the same scene played out all around the world that fall.

There at Civic Center Park, across the avenue from the State Capitol building, the Boy and i stood in the thick of it as those battle lines sharpened, and then blew apart as the whole outhouse hit the fan.

Some thousands of us had marched boisterously through Denver’s business district, pausing for a special visit at the Federal Reserve. After completing a wide loop around downtown we mounted the Capitol steps for whatever confrontation the Denver planners had planned. They, (to claim a thing–we), had been warned explicitly beforehand to stay off that particular edifice, so the moment we took the steps and began railing through one of our ubiquitous bullhorns, the shock teams appeared, as if the bearded-Spock Enterprise had beamed them to the scene.

Honestly, i was pretty fucking nervous at that point. It’s not as though i’d never been beaten up by the cops before, but that stuff is kind of a young man’s sport, and i was never really all that much a fan anyhow. Besides, those had always been cops, not armored sci-fi gladiators. But the main thing was the Boy. He was fifteen then and down for plenty, but he looked pretty worried too, and, (the mainthing, actually), i knew i’d never live through my next conversation with his mother if i allowed him to be beaten and busted by the police. I suggested we pull back to the park and we did, but i felt pretty spineless for having done it, really.

The Boy and i had a quick consult: “You see what this is going to be, right?” “Yeah.” “Are you down, or not?” Nervous but firm, “Yeah.” “Fuck it then…God damn it; your mom is gonna kill me. Let’s get some lunch.”

The park itself  was packed with crowds of Occupiers, some having returned with us from the march and probably harboring thoughts similar to mine. The encampment had been there for a good while by then, and the Black Flag Anarchists’ Free Kitchen was in full flight. It had already been dismantled more than once as a special preparatory project for the cops–kind of a warm-up. Knowing well what was coming, the no-nonsense scrappy men’n’women in black behind the table were all assholes with elbows, flying around in a frenzy with grim serious joy in their eyes as they did their level best to sling as much great tasting free food as possible before the inevitable hammer fell. Those guys were freaking awesome sauce with motherfuckin’ cherries on top!

Rather than spark an actual and possibly justifiable war on the Capitol steps, even the most radical and adrenaline-blinded of the group holding that position chose to retreat and quickly joined us at the park. The scene was oddly festive, with tents and art projects and folks dressed for carnival. The mid-autumn day was one of those beautiful Colorado Indian summer affairs with pristine blue skies through which flitted happy and blissfully oblivious birdies merrily on the lookout for delectable kitchen scraps. But wait! What the hey!!? The second the steps were abandoned and that contingent joined those meeker souls at the park, the rest of the cops in the danged known universe materialized in a huff and began setting up for some sort of paramilitary invasion. No shit–we all saw pretty quickly what the Denver PD had in mind for all those fun military vehicles and equipment they’d been collecting.

The scene changed dramatically there on the sidewalk where the Anarchists’ Kitchen was set up. There was plenty of action before then, but the top-gun radicals had been at the Capitol along with most of the cops. Now a phalanx quickly formed four deep with armored, shielded, armed, dangerous, implacable, and apparently stoically unflappable police stretching all around, up and down–all over the fucking place. Where the Boy and i stood a few sidewalk squares south of the Kitchen the scene was still like a carnival spreading away and outward into the park in every direction save the east, buy more like something Ray Bradbury or John Clifford might have dreamt up. Moving east to west one would have passed through four rows of cops in a formation that i’d only seen before in movies about Fascist  takeovers where American patriots saved the day by vanquishing some identically clad and positioned foe as we occupiers faced that day, armored only with our damn-the-torpedoes ethical certitude. Stepping by the entrenched police if one were to dare it, one would have passed a modest tree lawn, an ordinary sidewalk crowded with dark festival-goers, and could then step up to the folding table that served as the Anarchists’ ordering counter and serving table set up facing east from the immediate western line of the sidewalk across from the antiMayberry lines facing the stubbornly unaltered scene in the Kitchen.

The cops just stood there for what seems to memory like hours, but it couldn’t have been all afternoon or anything. Maybe so. The Boy and i milled around a bit getting a look at the overall scene and scoping out the various sections of the park. Behind the Kitchen to the west were the bulk of the tents, say a hundred or more, though others were scattered about. Further  west a concrete round with maybe a fountain or something hosted a bunch of info tables, some artsy hippies working on various projects, a triage setup, some chanting Hare Krishnas. More cops surrounded the camp, even more moved to close off the farthest reaches of the west side, We all saw we were utterly circumscribed and our physical position was hopeless. There was plenty of Hope, mind you, but all of it founded on our spiritual position, see.

As we awaited  what everyone knew to be inexorable, not so many of us remained quiet, (by “us” i mean Occupiers here; the most visible government employees were silent). I did mostly, and so did the Boy, he for his reasons and i for mine. The whole scene produced its own racket, but the most noticeable volume arose from the collection of spirit-moved Occupiers working the lines of eerily insensate gendarmes. Each was moved by his or her own personal spirit, few of which were very friendly toward the collective juggernaut we faced. More than one strode frenetically up and down whichever line was convenient  hurling f-bombs and spittle with as much force as he could muster. You know: “Fuck the Police!!!” and,“Fuck Yoooou!!!” from distances as close as the collected officers’ gear would allow. The pointillistic rows of cops, each in his own world, stared into space, eyes forward and directed at some Unknown, refusing eye contact. Only God and each man in his solitude knew what blackness filled his vision, (and possibly anyone operating one of those guv’mint mind-reading gizmos, if you’re into that sort of thinking).

Sensibly, few of the “non-violent” protesters were mad–that is crazy–enough to attempt to get physical. Those that did were promptly stomped, smashed and removed from the game. Otherwise with many pushing the envelope right to its most extreme limit, the arms-down-and-rigid-face forward-inches-from-any-nearest-random-cop’s-shielded-face stance of extreme and barely checked agitation rapidly became familiar. I for one was amazed at the extraordinary and rather creepy restraint the beleaguered police were displaying, though few shield-screened eyes could keep from betraying internal turmoil. Virtually none of the cops would assent to eye contact.

As this scene played itself out, a few Occupiers attempted to convince their fellows to mellow. In the midst of the very front and most electrical line of all this, there in front of the aforementioned Kitchen, one lone Occupier was working the line of gear-laden men, moved by a different spirit indeed. He was preaching it, baby. Pleading. Begging. Beseeching. As near to tears as i am now as this scene spills its way from my fingertips, fluid in his expressive motion to and fro as any practiced Sunday morning crowd-pleaser can i get a amen. “Don’t you see it? You are us! We are you! Please, stop this! We are one–we must stop fighting!” And in some brilliant, divinely inspired voice, “Lay down your shields! Join us! Put down your clubs and have some lunch!”

And then …right there in front of the Boy and me…with the scene in the actual Kitchen production area behind the table unchanged from before the lines formed…one of them did exactly that.

There was actually a fat queue at the Kitchen counter that parted like the Red Sea, astonished, for this newborn brother of ours to step up and claim his serving. He ate his food in silence and retook his spot in that other line which remained unaltered as his fellows stood unmoved, apparently in both senses. The Boy and i collected our portion of genuinely bomb-ass risotto and began to  eat with more on our minds than i can possibly describe. Before we were half through our plates the order came and we found ourselves dining amidst a police riot, our rice flavored by tear gas. (I got off the hook before, when the story remained vague. I suppose his mom is going to kill me now, after all).

The rest of the action went down as one would expect, with ample blood, outrage, and pepper-bullet injury and indignity and tears and drama. It was all on the news, with much expansion available on YouTube. You can look it up. None of that is the point.

I heard that one cop was fired perfunctorily that night.

We were there. Right fucking there. It really happened. It was so surreal i almost have to ask the Boy if it actually wasn’t some kind of dream.

Those two guys, though. That cop! When we all do what he did, just maybe then the war will be over. He looked up  and noticed he was looking in the fucking mirror.

The thing about all this is that the crowd of Occupiers was a full-on quorum of average joes with representation across several spectra. There were Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, Democrats, hippies, neo-hippies, and chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas, The cops were disguised as an invading foreign force but we all know they were really just a bunch of Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, and Democrats. The only groups lacking representation really were the hippies and the chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas that stayed with the rest of us till late into the night serving free food as a replacement for the Anarchists who had been quite the hell shut down. Oh yeah–there likely weren’t too many Anarchists on the cops’ side of the lines. I’m pretty sure  those differences are significant. Maybe the cops would be better if they got some of those groups they were missing. The janglier the better.

Back here at the county jail where i’m still Occupying, there’s lots of conflict, though not nearly so boiling hot. The old standby, “Fuck the Police,” is scrawled or carved around and about and plenty of folks on either side of whatever line each has drawn are fully prepared to swing  clubs at one another. Many of the sheriff’s deputies and sad, paycheck-to paycheck “detention specialists” are happy to evoke a very dark spirit indeed in their efforts to control us inmates who represent Other to them. I have been struck by the observation that these obnoxious fucks are the respected  representatives of a society that so many of our deluded citizenry expect us of the criminal class to emulate.

Ha! I may be an asshole myself, but no thanks: I have no interest in joining your obnoxious and shitty club.

Meanwhile, virtually all of us prisoners, including myself sometimes, react…”Grumble grumble fuck the police why i oughtta etc. etc. ad nauseum” Various of us slink around and steal or fight among ourselves or in general practice a sort of blindfolded subservience to Self. (Marco! Polo!…Ouch! Motherfucker!!!). We’re fucking obnoxious. We want the cops and the guards and judges and bankers and presidents to act differently but…why would they want to join our obnoxious and shitty club? When they do we wind up with a spectacular clusterfuck like the found at the Denver county jail last month, where a dep was helping a banger sling dope and administer beat-downs. Happens all the time. In every kaleidoscopic variation you can imagine.

Pogo couldn’t have known the heft and resonance of his words: “ We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

I wrote a screed a while back, (Today’s Tom Sawyer), excoriating shitty Christian behavior. There’s still plenty to say about all that, and maybe some of it will come out here, but it’s not the point of this one. During that earlier rant, i promised to harp, eventually, about bad behavior on the part of pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, and some of my other natural affinity groups as well.

That isn’t it either. Or maybe it is. But not really. Not quite. I promised to write about the Fear, too, and nor is it that, though the Fear runs through it all. This is about a war.

Many members of of various of the groups on that funny little list i jotted just now recognize and will now openly state that there’s a war looming. They’re wrong about that much anyhow–the looming is all done and the fight is on. Right now. It’s been on for decades, (or maybe forever). I’m here “jotting” because that’s what one does in the county jail, where i am a political prisoner–a POW, really, though i prefer to think of myself as a prisoner of conscience–but maybe it’s a digression to say so. Or maybe not. Let’s explore this amalgam of notions a bit, and see if we can find out.

Here at the county jail one finds a  peculiarly refined microcosm of the way the dynamics of the variously conflicting groups involved in this bizarre  war interact, cleared of much of the dross of false civility that ordinarily circumvents the fight out on the sidewalk, at least here in the U.S.A.

I know Europeans here that want to skedaddle from this place and others afraid to come here because many of them can see the shitstorm brewing and it scares them. They often seem to see it more clearly than we Americans are able to do at least in part because our access to real news is barely over nil, of maybe because as outside observers they aren’t saddled with the cognitive dissonance we sorry brainwashed frogs that live in this hot-ass boiling lake must so often suffer. I don’t know. I hope they realize this pond holds us all.

Oddly enough, while the interactions at the county jail display some of the finer points of conflict in out absurdly labeled free society, they also show some reasons for hope. There are still lights burning.

“Fuck the Police!”

I don’t know how many times i’ve heard that phrase from some of my dearest friends. I’ve uttered them myself. Often. Sometimes at the top of my lungs. Sometimes it was far more personal: “Fuck you! That’s right, you, personally, whomever you may be in your opposition to me, my pursuits, my people. Maybe i should refer to the less common; “Fuck the Pigs,’ because the police are only a fractional representation of one segment, one camp of that particular overarching social entity the hippies were talking about when they began to disparage swine so badly as to label their opposition thusly in this odd existential war from whence the flesh and blood scrap derives.

“Battle lines are being drawn,” went the line from the Buffalo Springfield some fifty-ish years back. They’re pretty well drawn, now, though they resemble lines a three-year-old might scribble. The shit’s on. People are fighting. The skirmishes often feel like some kind of kids’ game though too, involving blindfolds and billyclubs. Maybe i can’t deny swinging a stick around myself, sometimes. Maybe that’swhat this is–a chance for me to look in the mirror a little, Maybe it’s because it’s hard to sit the game out when i keep getting hit in the head. Whatever. Let’s keep on through the maze and just hope we don’t smash too many mirrors.

During the Occupation we intrepids staged a few years back, (and some of us still engage–viva la revolución and all), my son and i traveled to Denver for the final push when the cops razed the encampment there. The scene that October of 2011 there in Denver was some shit this country hadn’t seen in over forty years maybe, where armored brigades of soldiers–not cops at all but stormtroopers–rolled on a huge, disparate group of unarmed citizens. It was tragic. And beautiful. Versions of the same scene played out all around the world that fall.

There at Civic Center Park, across the avenue from the State Capitol building, the Boy and i stood in the thick of it as those battle lines sharpened, and then blew apart as the whole outhouse hit the fan.

Some thousands of us had marched boisterously through Denver’s business district, pausing for a special visit at the Federal Reserve. After completing a wide loop around downtown we mounted the Capitol steps for whatever confrontation the Denver planners had planned. They, (to claim a thing–we), had been warned explicitly beforehand to stay off that particular edifice, so the moment we took the steps and began railing through one of our ubiquitous bullhorns, the shock teams appeared, as if the bearded-Spock Enterprise had beamed them to the scene.

Honestly, i was pretty fucking nervous at that point. It’s not as though i’d never been beaten up by the cops before, but that stuff is kind of a young man’s sport, and i was never really all that much a fan anyhow. Besides, those had always been cops, not armored sci-fi gladiators. But the main thing was the Boy. He was fifteen then and down for plenty, but he looked pretty worried too, and, (the mainthing, actually), i knew i’d never live through my next conversation with his mother if i allowed him to be beaten and busted by the police. I suggested we pull back to the park and we did, but i felt pretty spineless for having done it, really.

The Boy and i had a quick consult: “You see what this is going to be, right?” “Yeah.” “Are you down, or not?” Nervous but firm, “Yeah.” “Fuck it then…God damn it; your mom is gonna kill me. Let’s get some lunch.”

The park itself  was packed with crowds of Occupiers, some having returned with us from the march and probably harboring thoughts similar to mine. The encampment had been there for a good while by then, and the Black Flag Anarchists’ Free Kitchen was in full flight. It had already been dismantled more than once as a special preparatory project for the cops–kind of a warm-up. Knowing well what was coming, the no-nonsense scrappy men’n’women in black behind the table were all assholes with elbows, flying around in a frenzy with grim serious joy in their eyes as they did their level best to sling as much great tasting free food as possible before the inevitable hammer fell. Those guys were freaking awesome sauce with motherfuckin’ cherries on top!

Rather than spark an actual and possibly justifiable war on the Capitol steps, even the most radical and adrenaline-blinded of the group holding that position chose to retreat and quickly joined us at the park. The scene was oddly festive, with tents and art projects and folks dressed for carnival. The mid-autumn day was one of those beautiful Colorado Indian summer affairs with pristine blue skies through which flitted happy and blissfully oblivious birdies merrily on the lookout for delectable kitchen scraps. But wait! What the hey!!? The second the steps were abandoned and that contingent joined those meeker souls at the park, the rest of the cops in the danged known universe materialized in a huff and began setting up for some sort of paramilitary invasion. No shit–we all saw pretty quickly what the Denver PD had in mind for all those fun military vehicles and equipment they’d been collecting.

The scene changed dramatically there on the sidewalk where the Anarchists’ Kitchen was set up. There was plenty of action before then, but the top-gun radicals had been at the Capitol along with most of the cops. Now a phalanx quickly formed four deep with armored, shielded, armed, dangerous, implacable, and apparently stoically unflappable police stretching all around, up and down–all over the fucking place. Where the Boy and i stood a few sidewalk squares south of the Kitchen the scene was still like a carnival spreading away and outward into the park in every direction save the east, buy more like something Ray Bradbury or John Clifford might have dreamt up. Moving east to west one would have passed through four rows of cops in a formation that i’d only seen before in movies about Fascist  takeovers where American patriots saved the day by vanquishing some identically clad and positioned foe as we occupiers faced that day, armored only with our damn-the-torpedoes ethical certitude. Stepping by the entrenched police if one were to dare it, one would have passed a modest tree lawn, an ordinary sidewalk crowded with dark festival-goers, and could then step up to the folding table that served as the Anarchists’ ordering counter and serving table set up facing east from the immediate western line of the sidewalk across from the antiMayberry lines facing the stubbornly unaltered scene in the Kitchen.

The cops just stood there for what seems to memory like hours, but it couldn’t have been all afternoon or anything. Maybe so. The Boy and i milled around a bit getting a look at the overall scene and scoping out the various sections of the park. Behind the Kitchen to the west were the bulk of the tents, say a hundred or more, though others were scattered about. Further  west a concrete round with maybe a fountain or something hosted a bunch of info tables, some artsy hippies working on various projects, a triage setup, some chanting Hare Krishnas. More cops surrounded the camp, even more moved to close off the farthest reaches of the west side, We all saw we were utterly circumscribed and our physical position was hopeless. There was plenty of Hope, mind you, but all of it founded on our spiritual position, see.

As we awaited  what everyone knew to be inexorable, not so many of us remained quiet, (by “us” i mean Occupiers here; the most visible government employees were silent). I did mostly, and so did the Boy, he for his reasons and i for mine. The whole scene produced its own racket, but the most noticeable volume arose from the collection of spirit-moved Occupiers working the lines of eerily insensate gendarmes. Each was moved by his or her own personal spirit, few of which were very friendly toward the collective juggernaut we faced. More than one strode frenetically up and down whichever line was convenient  hurling f-bombs and spittle with as much force as he could muster. You know: “Fuck the Police!!!” and,“Fuck Yoooou!!!” from distances as close as the collected officers’ gear would allow. The pointillistic rows of cops, each in his own world, stared into space, eyes forward and directed at some Unknown, refusing eye contact. Only God and each man in his solitude knew what blackness filled his vision, (and possibly anyone operating one of those guv’mint mind-reading gizmos, if you’re into that sort of thinking).

Sensibly, few of the “non-violent” protesters were mad–that is crazy–enough to attempt to get physical. Those that did were promptly stomped, smashed and removed from the game. Otherwise with many pushing the envelope right to its most extreme limit, the arms-down-and-rigid-face forward-inches-from-any-nearest-random-cop’s-shielded-face stance of extreme and barely checked agitation rapidly became familiar. I for one was amazed at the extraordinary and rather creepy restraint the beleaguered police were displaying, though few shield-screened eyes could keep from betraying internal turmoil. Virtually none of the cops would assent to eye contact.

As this scene played itself out, a few Occupiers attempted to convince their fellows to mellow. In the midst of the very front and most electrical line of all this, there in front of the aforementioned Kitchen, one lone Occupier was working the line of gear-laden men, moved by a different spirit indeed. He was preaching it, baby. Pleading. Begging. Beseeching. As near to tears as i am now as this scene spills its way from my fingertips, fluid in his expressive motion to and fro as any practiced Sunday morning crowd-pleaser can i get a amen. “Don’t you see it? You are us! We are you! Please, stop this! We are one–we must stop fighting!” And in some brilliant, divinely inspired voice, “Lay down your shields! Join us! Put down your clubs and have some lunch!”

And then …right there in front of the Boy and me…with the scene in the actual Kitchen production area behind the table unchanged from before the lines formed…one of them did exactly that.

There was actually a fat queue at the Kitchen counter that parted like the Red Sea, astonished, for this newborn brother of ours to step up and claim his serving. He ate his food in silence and retook his spot in that other line which remained unaltered as his fellows stood unmoved, apparently in both senses. The Boy and i collected our portion of genuinely bomb-ass risotto and began to  eat with more on our minds than i can possibly describe. Before we were half through our plates the order came and we found ourselves dining amidst a police riot, our rice flavored by tear gas. (I got off the hook before, when the story remained vague. I suppose his mom is going to kill me now, after all).

The rest of the action went down as one would expect, with ample blood, outrage, and pepper-bullet injury and indignity and tears and drama. It was all on the news, with much expansion available on YouTube. You can look it up. None of that is the point.

I heard that one cop was fired perfunctorily that night.

We were there. Right fucking there. It really happened. It was so surreal i almost have to ask the Boy if it actually wasn’t some kind of dream.

Those two guys, though. That cop! When we all do what he did, just maybe then the war will be over. He looked up  and noticed he was looking in the fucking mirror.

The thing about all this is that the crowd of Occupiers was a full-on quorum of average joes with representation across several spectra. There were Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, Democrats, hippies, neo-hippies, and chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas, The cops were disguised as an invading foreign force but we all know they were really just a bunch of Christians, pagans, dope fiends, felons, bikers, disgruntled employees, GIs, vets, blue-collar Barney Rubbles, Republicans, and Democrats. The only groups lacking representation really were the hippies and the chanting, jangling Hare Krishnas that stayed with the rest of us till late into the night serving free food as a replacement for the Anarchists who had been quite the hell shut down. Oh yeah–there likely weren’t too many Anarchists on the cops’ side of the lines. I’m pretty sure  those differences are significant. Maybe the cops would be better if they got some of those groups they were missing. The janglier the better.

Back here at the county jail where i’m still Occupying, there’s lots of conflict, though not nearly so boiling hot. The old standby, “Fuck the Police,” is scrawled or carved around and about and plenty of folks on either side of whatever line each has drawn are fully prepared to swing  clubs at one another. Many of the sheriff’s deputies and sad, paycheck-to paycheck “detention specialists” are happy to evoke a very dark spirit indeed in their efforts to control us inmates who represent Other to them. I have been struck by the observation that these obnoxious fucks are the respected  representatives of a society that so many of our deluded citizenry expect us of the criminal class to emulate.

Ha! I may be an asshole myself, but no thanks: I have no interest in joining your obnoxious and shitty club.

Meanwhile, virtually all of us prisoners, including myself sometimes, react…”Grumble grumble fuck the police why i oughtta etc. etc. ad nauseum” Various of us slink around and steal or fight among ourselves or in general practice a sort of blindfolded subservience to Self. (Marco! Polo!…Ouch! Motherfucker!!!). We’re fucking obnoxious. We want the cops and the guards and judges and bankers and presidents to act differently but…why would they want to join our obnoxious and shitty club? When they do we wind up with a spectacular clusterfuck like the found at the Denver county jail last month, where a dep was helping a banger sling dope and administer beat-downs. Happens all the time. In every kaleidoscopic variation you can imagine.

Sorry, reader; a glitch is preventing the end of this from displaying just now. I’ll fix it, but meanwhile, this link is better for the footnotes anyway. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1umk-RPyxoiQTPSS84Cp4sR80UAXFzsVRpuiRBVzrdNA/edit?usp=sharing

Although those of you that have read or will now read the other stuff here on hipgnosis will easily recognize the common ground that one may imagine stands to be found on the lawns inside the moats of our adjacent castles in a neighborhood full of loons, all built on air, i am deeply indebted to Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason for some of the truly fine and beautiful language i snatched more or less wholesale to help me build the last four paragraphs here. Even though their book,The Rule of Four is a best-seller of a popular genre, i highly recommend it as the best book i’ve read produced during the twenty-first century. I wish i had written it myself, (while noting the title of this piece). Everyone should read this book.

POSTED BY STEVE BASS AT 9:45 PM

Homeless Colorado Springs man emboldened by Occupy effort appeals jail time

from the Colorado Springs Gazette

http://gazette.com/article/1534440

By Jakob Rodgers Updated: July 28, 2014 at 2:07 pm

Nearly three years ago, Steven Bass’ tent led to a police ticket – a ticket that led to a trial, an appeal denied and 160-day sentence in El Paso County jail.

Bass, the first person cited under Colorado Springs’ camping ban, remains mired in a legal battle backed by a University of Denver assistant professor working for free.

He represents a small segment of the homeless issue – a man on a personal crusade against the camping ban emboldened by the Occupy Colorado Springs movement. His case is not emblematic of others who have been cited for camping on public property; rather, it is more of an outlier.

While people ticketed for camping typically include the chronically homeless – people whose only home is a tent, and who often rebuff police officers’ offers of secure housing – Bass wants to make a point.

Right now, he is free while appealing the jail time. Bass lives with a fellow veteran of the Occupy movement and blogs occasionally on what he sees as injustices in the world.

“I contend now that this thing has burgeoned well beyond the camping ban itself, and has now become a giant discussion of principle, and just what the hell we’re doing here in the United States of America, and the whole world,” Bass said.

Police issued the ticket in October 2011 when he pitched a tent on a sidewalk in Acacia Park, despite warnings from police that doing so would lead to a citation.

For Bass, the ticket and the Occupy gathering proved an opportune time for a stand against the city’s camping ban – an ordinance passed by the City Council in 2010 that outlawed camping on public land. He said he has volunteered at soup kitchens and for other homeless services for about 30 years, and he lives homeless – usually by couch surfing.

“Just because they don’t have any money, poof, they are made criminals,” Bass said of people affected by the ban.

Eleven tickets have been issued under the ban through June 5, with the majority coming in 2014, according to the Colorado Springs Police Department.

The ban came as camps swelled along Monument and Fountain creeks amid the Great Recession in 2009 and early 2010. So many people lived there that bystanders dropped off donated food and clothing along the creek beds – philanthropy that proved overwhelming to the point of concern, some homeless advocates say. Sanitation issues also arose.

City Council member Jan Martin said she voted for the ordinance for the safety of people using creekside trails, along with concerns about the image that such tent cities would create for the city, she said Friday. Proponents of the ban said it is a tool to get people into more stable housing.

“In my opinion, it’s not a matter of out of sight, out of mind,” Martin said. “It’s just trying to find resources that can help people get back on their feet.”

Because of Bass’ indigent status, a judge decided against a fine in favor of a 60-hour community service sentence for the citation.

Bass said he almost did it – he planned on helping Pikes Peak Habitat for Humanity – until a DU professor offered to help. With the pro bono advice of Christopher Lasch, who teaches at the university’s Criminal Defense Clinic, Bass appealed the case.

A district court judge upheld the municipal court’s decision – a blow to the notion that the ban is unjust.

A subsequent appeal to the Colorado Supreme Court was denied in March, said Rob McCallum, spokesman for the Colorado Judicial Branch.

Through it all, Bass contemplated his 60-hour of community service sentence. And in an April hearing before Municipal Judge Spottswood W. H. Williams, Bass said he will never complete the requirement.

Identifying himself as an Occupier, Bass wrote to Williams that the camping ordinance is “effectively status-based incarceration,” because forcing people into shelters could be another form of incarceration. He also said he already does community service but railed against the court forcing him to do so.

“Therefore, i (sic) am here in front of you forcing your hand,” he wrote. “You must now either acknowledge the ethical poverty of the ordinance, or prove my point.”

In June, Williams answered Bass’ statement with a 160-day jail sentence for contempt of court.

Bass is appealing that sentence with Lasch’s help after having served more than a month in El Paso County jail.

Lasch said the jail sentence was excessive because jail time for failing to pay a fine is usually half of what Bass has served.

Even if he serves all 160 days, Bass has no plans of completing the 60-hour community service order – a requirement that remains.

Lasch wants all of it thrown out.

“The fact that the government would go to such lengths to punish this activity certainly supports Steve’s position that this (ban) effectively punishes being homeless,” Lasch said.

“In this case, it certainly punished him for speaking out against the ban.”

Contact Jakob Rodgers: 476-1654

Twitter @JakobRodgers

Facebook: Jakob.Rodgers

Read more at http://gazette.com/homeless-colorado-springs-man-emboldened-by-occupy-effort-appeals-jail-time/article/1534440#TIqUcdEm4KE8udlJ.99

Set Up and Opening day of the LaMay CANNABIS MUSEUM™ OF COLORADO Behind the scenes

 

CANNABIS MUSEUM OF COLORADO Website

Jump to Museum Location page.

April 18, 2014

It  Was a warm an humid Friday, the topic on everyone’s lips? What are you doing for this year’s 4/20 celebration? I was single minded in my concerns… I had a painting to drop off. Let us back up 6 weeks time. Michelle LaMay announced she would be opening Colorado’s first cannabis History Museum. She got with me (Breezy Kiefair) and asked if I would be interested in donating a painting to the museum. I was informed that my first book, Of Poetry, Pain, and Pot was already to be included among the museum’s exhibits and gift store offerings. I eagerly agreed and allowed Michelle to choose one of my images. I then had the image printed onto canvas and set about touching up that canvas with my own hand and brushes. I had worked many hours a day for many weeks and finally the beauty in my mind had begun to shine through. I called the piece complete and April 18 was the day to hang the canvas in the museum. It was opening day for the museum, so I was kind of expecting everything to be set up and ready to go, but when Michelle opened the trailer, and said, “Help me” there was no considering refusing.  You see, an international film crew was on the way and would arrive within 2 hours time. The museum had not yet had the exhibits set up and there was a ton of work. Michelle had shown up with two willing gentlemen (Charlie Washington and Rick Wainwright) but an extra set of hands were both willing and necessary. The 4 of us were as industrious as bees. We did pause for the occasional bowl, but by the time the film crew showed up, nearly everything was picture perfect. It was heartwarming to see a group of individuals coming together to complete a task. Each of us had our own strengths and infirmities, but together we were whole and up to the task. The activity and the honor of having my painting shown was more than enough excitement for me for 4/20 this year.

You may click on any of the below images to begin a slideshow of the day in pictures.

 

About Breezy’s Contribution

The title is: "the marriage of azaela flowers and cannabis leaves" if you look up the symbolism of the azaela, you will find it stands for feminine self care. This goddess image symbolizes the marriage of feminine self care with the cannabis plant as a medicine. The energy of self care and the compounds of the cannabis plant come together to provide a synergistic healing to the person in question... to be shown in michelle lamay's cannabis history museum. This is the first painting that I as the artist call one of my masterpieces. Thank you Michelle for giving me a chance to show it. https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=782772988409379&set=pb.100000300558421.-2207520000.1398456073.&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn2%2Ft1.0-9%2F1503218_782772988409379_7023335663112254261_n.jpg&size=960%2C720

The title is: “the marriage of azalea flowers and cannabis leaves” if you look up the symbolism of the azalea, you will find it stands for feminine self care. This goddess image symbolizes the marriage of feminine self care with the cannabis plant as a medicine. The energy of self care and the compounds of the cannabis plant come together to provide a synergistic healing to the person in question… to be shown in michelle lamay’s cannabis history museum. This is the first painting that I as the artist call one of my masterpieces. Thank you Michelle for giving me a chance to show it..https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=782772988409379&set=pb.100000300558421.-2207520000.1398456073.&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn2%2Ft1.0-9%2F1503218_782772988409379_7023335663112254261_n.jpg&size=960%2C720

The title is: “the marriage of azalea flowers and cannabis leaves” if you look up the symbolism of the azalea, you will find it stands for feminine self care. This goddess image symbolizes the marriage of feminine self care with the cannabis plant as a medicine. The energy of self care and the compounds of the cannabis plant come together to provide a synergistic healing to the person in question… to be shown in michelle lamay’s cannabis history museum. This is the first painting that I as the artist call one of my masterpieces. Thank you Michelle for giving me a chance to show it. https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=782772988409379&set=pb.100000300558421.-2207520000.1398456073.&type=3&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-prn2%2Ft1.0-9%2F1503218_782772988409379_7023335663112254261_n.jpg&size=960%2C720

Related articles:

A pop-up cannabis museum on wheels? Only in Colorado

reprinted from: http://www.thecannabist.co/2014/04/16/pop-up-cannabis-museum-wheels-denver-colorado/9662/

A mobile cannabis museum — packed into a crowded fifth-wheel with artifacts, interactive displays, photos and media archives on the history of marijuana — that announces its pop-up locations via social media?

Only in Colorado.

“I intend to travel all around the state educating Coloradans about the history of hemp and cannabis,” said Michelle LaMay, the 67-year-old activist behind LaMay’s Cannabis Museum, which opens 4/20 weekend. “I’m parking this weekend in Aurora, and I’ll be posting my location like food trucks do.”


LaMay isn’t lacking passion. As you tour her museum on wheels, she’ll giddily teach you about the state’s laws for carrying, ingesting and growing marijuana — not to mention her own activist roots dating back to 1992 in Mesa County, where she helped collect 5,000 signatures in an attempt to legalize hemp.

Her museum won’t have regular hours or a steady location even, but she’ll announce her hours and location via social media and website. Admission to the museum is free.

“I’ll be at people’s parties and in dispensary parking lots,” LaMay said. “I’ve been booked for those occasions, and I’ll also be at the Pot Pavilion at the Denver County Fair, which I’m very excited about.”

As with LaMay’s five-year-old Cannabis University of Colorado, the museum’s primary goal is education.

“More education about hemp and cannabis can only help raise awareness and acceptance for cannabis and hemp — not just the products but we users also,” LaMay said. “I’m a 67-year-old, and just my mere presence lends credibility to the cause, I’ve been told.”

Please VOTE YES on

I-3: PROHIBIT CANNABIS POSSESSION PENALTIES ACT COLORADO 2014

 Shall there be an amendment to the Colorado constitution prohibiting courts from imposing any fine or sentence for the possession of cannabis? 

                MAKE IT RIGHT: Drive the nail in the coffin of prohibition

                          

PROHIBIT  CANNABIS POSSESSION PENALTIES

Be it enacted by the people of Colorado Article XVIII of the constitution of the state of Colorado is amended BY THE ADDITION OF A NEW SECTION to read: Section 17. Prohibit cannabis possession penalties. (1) Purpose and findings. (a) THE PURPOSE OF THIS SECTION IS TO DIRECT THE JUDICIARY BRANCH OF ALL GOVERNING BODIES IN THE STATE OF COLORADO TO PROHIBIT AND RELIEVE THEIR COURTS FROM IMPOSING ANY FINE OR SENTENCE FOR THE POSSESSION OF CANNABIS. (b) IT IS IN THE INTEREST OF THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF COLORADO THAT THE COURTS BE PROHIBITED AND RELIEVED FROM IMPOSING A FINE OR SENTENCE FOR THE POSSESSION OF CANNABIS BECAUSE THE PEOPLE FIND THAT THE PUNISHMENT FOR POSSESSION OF CANNABIS EXCEEDS THE FISCAL AND SOCIAL COSTS THAT POSSESSING CANNABIS IMPOSES ON THE PEOPLE OF COLORADO. (c) IT IS IN THE INTEREST OF THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF COLORADO THAT THE COURTS BE PROHIBITED AND RELIEVED FROM IMPOSING A FINE OR SENTENCE FOR THE POSSESSION OF CANNABIS BECAUSE THE PEOPLE FIND THAT THE PUNISHMENT IS INCONSISTENT WITH THE DAMAGE POSSESSING CANNABIS IMPOSES ON THE PEOPLE OF COLORADO. (d) THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF COLORADO FURTHER FIND AND DECLARE THAT IT IS NECESSARY TO ENSURE CONSISTENCY AND FAIRNESS IN THE APPLICATION OF THIS SECTION THROUGHOUT THE STATE, AND THAT , THEREFORE, THE MATTERS ADDRESSED BY THIS SECTION ARE DECLARED TO BE MATTERS OF STATEWIDE CONCERN. (2) Definitions. AS USED IN THIS SECTION, UNLESS THE CONTEXT OTHERWISE REQUIRES: (a) “CANNABIS” MEANS (I) THE GENUS OF THE CANNABIS PLANT AND ALL ITS SPECIES, LIVING OR DEAD; AND (II) IN ANY AMOUNT. (b) “COURTS” MEAN ALL TRIBUNALS ESTABLISHED FOR THE PURPOSE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE, INCLUDING ANY JUDICIAL OFFICERS OR “OTHER COURTS” ESTABLISHED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF COLORADO AND ALL MUNICIPAL AND POLICE COURTS ESTABLISHED BY HOME RULE CITIES AND (c) “POSSESSION OF CANNABIS” MEANS HAVING CANNABIS (I) IN OR ON ONE’S BODY OR CLOTHING; OR

  1. WITHIN ONE’S HOME OR AUTO.

d) “RELIEVE” MEANS ALLEVIATE. (3) Other laws unchanged. NOTHING IN THIS ACT SHALL BE CONSTRUED TO MODIFY ANY PROVISION OF THIS ARTICLE OR ANY OTHER CONSTITUTIONAL OR STATUTORY PROVISION CONCERNING CANNABIS. (4) Costs of implementing this section. THIS SECTION ADDS NO FISCAL COSTS TO THE STATE AND IMPOSES NO TAX UPON THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE. (5) Self-executing, conflicting provisions. THIS SECTION IS SELF-EXECUTING AND SHALL SUPERCEDE ANY CONFLICTING STATE, LOCAL, OR MUNICIPAL STATUTES, CODES, ORDINANCES, OR PROVISIONS. (6) Effective date. THIS SECTION SHALL BECOME EFFECTIVE UPON OFFICIAL DECLARATION OF THE VOTE HEREON BY PROCLAMATION OF THE GOVERNOR, PURSUANT TO SECTION 1(4) OF ARTICLE V OF THIS CONSTITUTION AND SHALL BE APPLIED TO ANYONE WHO HAS A SENTENCING HEARING ON OR AFTER SUCH DATE. ______________________________________________________________________ Proponent Colorado Citizen #1: Michelle Louise LaMay P.O. Box 181100 Denver, Colorado 80218 303-832-3529 Proponent Colorado Citizen #2: Isaac Smith PO Box 1268 Eastlake, Colorado 80614   720-292-8272 to share the text of this initiative on Facebook, please click this text

Toking Through Tin Pan Alley

The audio has been reworked by Breezy Kiefair. The base audio was a live performance of “Tin Pan Alley” by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble  from the Blues at Sunrise album All images created by Breezy Kiefair. cameos in the art by; Steve Elliott of Toke SignalsSonia Guerrero, and Pebbles Trippet all set to a breezy audio altered version of Stevie Ray Vaughan‘s “tin Pan alley” dedicated to the low income cannabis patient on the occasion of the first recreational cannabis commercial shops opening in Colorado. I will let each individual interpret the art themselves.

Dedicated to the low income cannabis patient left toking through tin pan Alley.

“Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)” is track #23 on the album Essential Stevie Ray Vaughan. It was written by Bob Geddins.

Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)

Went down to Tin Pan Alley
See what was goin’ on
Things was too hot down there
Couldn’t stay very long
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place I’ve ever been
All the peoples down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
She get up in the mornin’
Before the break a day
Before she can wash her face and hand
You know she really did go away
Hey, hey, hey, you tell
What kinda place can this here Alley be?
Well now, every women I get here
Every women I get to know
This Alley takes her away from me
I heard a pistol shoot
Yeah, and it was a .44
Somebody killed a crap shooter
‘Cause he didn’t shake, rattle and roll
Hey, hey, hey, hey
What kinda place can a Alley be?
All those people down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I heard a woman scream
Yeah, and I peeked through the door
Some cat was workin’ on Annie with a
Lord, Lord with a two by four
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
All the people down there
Lord, they are killin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I saw a cop standing there
With hand on his gun
Said this is a raid boy now
Run, run, nobody run
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
Yeah, they took me away from Alley
Lord, they took me right back to the pen

Songwriters
GEDDINS

lyrics source click here

Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble – Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place In Town)

the same video in an earlier draft with an album version (audio unaltered) is available here:

2

Solstice Gift! free ecopy “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot” One Day Only!

DECEMBER 21, 2013 ONLY!

Hurry over to Amazon.com and download your free ecopy Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, by Breezy Kiefair featuring works from The Art of Breezy Kiefair and Kiefair.com. Don’t own a kindle? no worries…. download Kindle for PC or Amazon Kindle for Android to access the book without purchasing the Amazon Kindle hardware. The Book is free today in honor of the Winter solstice celebration

Of Pain, Poetry and Pot is a poetry book centered on pot written by cannabis activist and artist under the influence of cannabis , Breezy Kiefair. “Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Ginsberg – Howl and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own.

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Poetry-Pot-Breedheen-ORilley/dp/1492830399/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1387652549&sr=8-1&keywords=of+poetry+pain+and+pot

I just published a poetry book with amazon.com…..this is the book cover. It is called “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot”

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

the electronic edition is still free for one more day folks! Please distribute the following link for people to get their free copy
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FGF8WUY

“Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). Yes, I am aware of the odd format in the table of contents. I assure you that is semi-intentional. and please! Share these links around so the pot poetry can be read easily.
another link for the paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1492830399/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

What the reviews are saying: (dec 20, 2013)

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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Talented, insightful artist and writer, November 25, 2013
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This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Paperback)

This multi-talented artist and writer amazed me with her insightful and sometimes heartbreaking poetry. Her artwork is not only beautiful, but different from any I have seen. I have actually ordered several individual prints off her website to give as gifts this Christmas. I highly recommend this book.

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Rare and Lovely, October 2, 2013
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Would You Like To Pick Breezy’s Brain? This wonderful book is a chance to witness the creative process at work; author Breezy Kiefair (aka Breedheen O’Rilley) is the real deal, a gifted poet/journalist/activist on the forefront of the battle for medical marijuana patients’ rights and for truth in media. And speaking of truth, emotional truth is exactly what you’ll get here. Breezy isn’t afraid to take an open-eyed, unsparing look at society, at herself, at her illnesses, at the lies we tell ourselves and each other — and at the scintillating, breathtaking beauty which is more real and more powerful than all else. Highly recommended.

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excerpt:

A bit of Cancer poetry for thought…

To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the diagnosis I have been this way
So burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my veins with Chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Every time I shut my eyes, all I see is pain.
Made a little ribbon to remember all the names
So empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. I hear they are thinking surgery, hope it’s not my brains.
They’re only gutting fishes for their own personal gain.
So numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank  account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Where were you at the time of the crime?
Ripping up the Hippocratic oath, just to make a dime?
So chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer

You put your doctors in, they take their conscience out,
They take the human being and they twist it all about
So take my world away
chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer– 

Adrian Mitchell’s structure.

Words by The Art of Breezy Kiefair

There is a cure for cancer…

how many beautiful women and men need to be butchered

because doctors want to run from the cure

for the sake of monetary gain?

Of Pain, Poetry and Pot

I just published a poetry book with amazon.com…..this is the book cover. It is called “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot”

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

the electronic edition is still free for one more day folks! Please distribute the following link for people to get their free copy
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FGF8WUY

the paperback edition is out as well.
http://www.amazon.com/…/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

“Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). Yes, I am aware of the odd format in the table of contents. I assure you that is semi-intentional. and please! Share these links around so the pot poetry can be read easily.
another link for the paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1492830399/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

excerpt:

A bit of Cancer poetry for thought…

To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the diagnosis I have been this way
So burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my veins with Chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Every time I shut my eyes, all I see is pain.
Made a little ribbon to remember all the names
So empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. I hear they are thinking surgery, hope it’s not my brains.
They’re only gutting fishes for their own personal gain.
So numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank  account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Where were you at the time of the crime?
Ripping up the Hippocratic oath, just to make a dime?
So chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer

You put your doctors in, they take their conscience out,
They take the human being and they twist it all about
So take my world away
chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer– 

Adrian Mitchell’s structure.

Words by The Art of Breezy Kiefair

There is a cure for cancer…

how many beautiful women and men need to be butchered

because doctors want to run from the cure

for the sake of monetary gain?

 

Breezy Kiefair a poem by Maggie Slighte

Breezy Kiefair

by: Maggie Slighte

A Sick Rose,
yet
an angel-
beautiful
and rare.
None
can compare
to the artist,
the being,
who is
Breezy Kiefair:Wings
tattered
and torn-
like the
leaves
that adorn-
her art
pure and wise.
Her dreams
and hope
she shares
with us,
through
green-tinted eyes.Sharing
a fragment-
a potential-
yet barely
tapped;
of
a little girl
lost,
but no longer
trapped.Flitting
and flying,
hither
and fro-
Seeking
fertile
soul soil
where love
might just
grow.Seeking
and searching
for those
more
worn
and war-torn
than she:
Ones
anxious-
pleading-
desperate
in need.Praying
the Creator
sends
them hope
with a smile;
on the wings
of change
sending
her energy
over the
miles.A fragile
yet wise,
Ginsberg sort
of a Girl;
On the
border
of being –
out of
this world.Searching
Seeking
Hoping to find-
All she
can help
in her very short time.Her maggic
is sacred –
Her intent
is so pure;
gods and godesses
of old
seek to them
to bring
her near.Demons abound
a fount
believing they
to have found;
Yet to one-
her Creator
only,
she so is bound

A heart
pure
in desire,
for absence
of animosity.
In her
dreams
she
once beheld
recipreciosity

Her heart bruised
yet open
to one
and to all-
True to
the Creator
for that,
none shall fall.

A lighte
of the ages-
A friend
true and rare-
Such is the woman
known as
Breezy Kiefair!!

at 12:26 AMfrom

Poetry and Random Reflections of Maggie Slighte. “Everything I do; I do, Slightely”

Open your closed eyelid
Which is gently brushed by a virginal dream!
I am the ghost of the rose
That you wore last night at the ball.
You took me when I was still sprinkled with pearls
Of silvery tears from the watering-can,
And, among the sparkling festivities,
You carried me the entire night.

O you, who caused my death:
Without the power to chase it away,
You will be visited every night by my ghost,
Which will dance at your bedside.
But fear nothing; I demand
Neither Mass nor De Profundis;
This mild perfume is my soul,
And I’ve come from Paradise.

My destiny is worthy of envy;
And to have a fate so fine,
More than one would give his life
For on your breast I have my tomb,
And on the alabaster where I rest,
A poet with a kiss
Wrote: “Here lies a rose,
Of which all kings may be jealous.”
http://youtu.be/B_7MiojC3ys

Hannah Hurnard’s “Hind’s Feet on High Places” audiobook video series

hind'a feet on high places

playlist on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwc43UiVjiudD0DhoUELBfeHOamG_Hvtj

A set of videos in Tribute to the writing of Hannah Hurnard, “Hind’s Feet on High Places” to Art of Breezy Kiefair i just put music and art to a book that has been a favorite since childhood… my mother used to read me that book…. call it a tribute to her and an introduction of the book to an audience that may otherwise remain unaware of it. I recommend it for anyone with anxiety or PTSD

Preface to the allegory

The Preface chapter  to Art of Breezy Kiefair and the Music of Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

Preface to the allegory

https://plus.google.com/photos/108039434993096331483/photo/5856776704305425106

info on the book: “Hinds’ Feet on High Places” From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Hinds’ Feet on High Places

Hinds’ Feet on High Places
Author(s) Hannah Hurnard
Country United Kingdom
Language English
Genre(s) Christian
Publisher Christian Literature Crusade
Publication date 1955
Media type Print (Hardback &Paperback)
Pages 158 pp.
ISBN ISBN 0 86065 192 4

Hinds’ Feet on High Places is an allegorical novel by English author Hannah HurnardHinds’ Feet was written in 1955 and has become a very successful work of Christian fiction, seeing new editions published as recently as July, 2005.

Plot introduction[edit]

It is the story of a young woman named Much Afraid, and her journey away from her Fearing family and into the High Places of the Shepherd, guided by her two companions Sorrow and Suffering. It is an allegory of a Christian devotional life from salvation through maturity. It aims to show how a Christian is transformed from unbeliever to immature believer to mature believer, who walks daily with God as easily on the High Places of Joy in the spirit as in the daily life of mundane and often humiliating tasks that may cause Christians to lose perspective.

The book takes its title from Habakkuk 3:19, “The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet like hinds’ feet, and he will make me to walk upon mine high places.”

The story begins in the Valley of Humiliation with Much Afraid, being beset by the unwanted advances of her cousin, Craven Fear, who wishes to marry her. The Family of Fearings seems to have some strong similarities to the Addams Family. Much Afraid is ugly from all outward appearances, walking on club feet, sporting gnarled, deformed hands, and speaking from a crooked mouth that seems to have been made so by a stroke or the like.

The Good Shepherd is tender and gentle with Much Afraid, especially in the beginning. However, His many sudden departures may strike the reader as bizarre, given the human penchant to expect kindly souls to never do everything that may be interpreted as rude or as hurtful in any way. Yet, though the Shepherd leaves in a moment, He returns the same way at the first furtive cry of the forlorn little protagonist. “Come, Shepherd, for I am much afraid!”

When Much Afraid intimates that she would love to be able to dance upon the high places as do the surefooted deer, the Shepherd commends her for this desire. In order to accomplish this, he offers to “plant the seed of love” into her heart. At first sight of the long, black hawthorne-looking seed, she shrieks in fear. Soon, she relents, and after the initial intense pain, she senses that something is indeed different in her, though she still looks the same, for now.

Just when the reader thinks that Much Afraid is about to reach the High Places, the path turns downward towards a seemingly endless desert. There is incident with an extremely high cliff that must be ascended by a steep, slippery and very narrow zig-zagging track, with the help of her two companions, Sorrow and Suffering. Then days are spent in a forest that is shrouded in a thick cloud of fog. During this time Much Afraid is sequestered with her two friends in a log cabin. The climax is an unexpected twist that comes as Much Afraid despairs of ever reaching the High Places.

Allusions/references to other works[edit|edit source]

The book bears some stylistic similarities to John Bunyan‘s The Pilgrim’s Progress. The name of the protagonist, Much-Afraid, also appears first in Bunyan’s work.

References[edit]

Bosman, Ellen. “Hind’s Feet on High Places” in Masterplots II: Christian Literature. Pasadena, CA: Salem Press, 2007: 779-782. Bezzina, Christopher Felix. ‘Journey to the High Places. Hannah Hurnard’s Spirituality and the Song of Songs.’http://www.amazon.com/Journey-High-Places-Hurnards-Spirituality/dp/1620320983

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Pink Floyd Animals, Art, Activism

The piece is really a self portrait about my activism journey/personal life 2009-2012 set to the pink floyd animals album. im thinking the subtle message may be too personal and understated for most to “get it”

2012-12-19-1629-to-alter-edit-2-2.jpg

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animals_(Pink_Floyd_album)

Pigs on the Wing (Part One) (Waters) 1:24

If you didn’t care what happened to me,
And I didn’t care for you,
We would zig zag our way through the boredom and pain
Occasionally glancing up through the rain.
Wondering which of the buggars to blame
And watching for pigs on the wing.

Dogs (Waters, Gilmour) 17:06 

You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need.
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street,
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed.
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight,
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.

And after a while, you can work on points for style.
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,
So that when they turn their backs on you,
You’ll get the chance to put the knife in.

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.
You know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you
get older.
And in the end you’ll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand,
Just another sad old man,
All alone and dying of cancer.

And when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest you have sown.
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone.
And it’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw
around.
So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone,
Dragged down by the stone.

I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused.
Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m just being used.
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this
maze?

Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend.
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And everything’s done under the sun,
And you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer.

Who was born in a house full of pain.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told what to do by the man.
Who was broken by trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.

Pigs (Three Different Ones) (Waters) 11:26 
Big man, pig man, ha ha charade you are.
You well heeled big wheel, ha ha charade you are.
And when your hand is on your heart,
You’re nearly a good laugh,
Almost a joker,
With your head down in the pig bin,
Saying “Keep on digging.”
Pig stain on your fat chin.
What do you hope to find.
When you’re down in the pig mine.
You’re nearly a laugh,
You’re nearly a laugh
But you’re really a cry.

Bus stop rat bag, ha ha charade you are.
You fucked up old hag, ha ha charade you are.
You radiate cold shafts of broken glass.
You’re nearly a good laugh,
Almost worth a quick grin.
You like the feel of steel,
You’re hot stuff with a hatpin,
And good fun with a hand gun.
You’re nearly a laugh,
You’re nearly a laugh
But you’re really a cry.

Hey you, Whitehouse,
Ha ha charade you are.
You house proud town mouse,
Ha ha charade you are
You’re trying to keep our feelings off the street.
You’re nearly a real treat,
All tight lips and cold feet
And do you feel abused?
…..! …..! …..! …..!
You gotta stem the evil tide,
And keep it all on the inside.
Mary you’re nearly a treat,
Mary you’re nearly a treat
But you’re really a cry.

Sheep (Waters) 10:19

Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away;
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air.
You better watch out,
There may be dogs about
I’ve looked over Jordan, and I have seen
Things are not what they seem.

What do you get for pretending the danger’s not real.
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is no bad dream.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
He makes me down to lie
Through pastures green He leadeth me the silent waters by.
With bright knives He releaseth my soul.
He maketh me to hang on hooks in high places.
He converteth me to lamb cutlets,
For lo, He hath great power, and great hunger.
When cometh the day we lowly ones,
Through quiet reflection, and great dedication
Master the art of karate,
Lo, we shall rise up,
And then we’ll make the bugger’s eyes water.

Bleating and babbling I fell on his neck with a scream.
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream.

Have you heard the news?
The dogs are dead!
You better stay home
And do as you’re told.
Get out of the road if you want to grow old.

Pigs on the Wing (Part Two) (Waters) 1:27

You know that I care what happens to you,
And I know that you care for me.
So I don’t feel alone,
Or the weight of the stone,
Now that I’ve found somewhere safe
To bury my bone.
And any fool knows a dog needs a home,
A shelter from pigs on the wing.

lyrics courtesy of: http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/index.html

Below it is my 24th draft and final of this video. The music is slightly slowed in the second version. In both videos I am symbolically distorting and burning my “self” and showcasing the art that comes from my inner turmoil.

Parody: Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting

Aye, yah! everybody was gettin in my face fighting, i explain my points as fast as lightning…. in fact I can be a little bit frightening… But I type with expert timing.

They were funky Canna men from funky Cannatown
hey were Marking them buds up and they were chopping them grows down
It’s an ancient Medicinal art and everybody knew their part
From a seed into a smoke, and toking from the bowl

everybody was gettin in my face fighting, i explain my points as fast as lightning…. in fact I can be a little bit frightening… But I type with expert timing.

There was wayward walkin Billy and big Tommy Chong
He said here comes the big boss, lets get it on
We took a bow and made a stand, started swinging with the hand
The sudden motion made me skip now we’re into a brand knew trip

everybody was gettin in my face fighting, i explain my points as fast as lightning…. in fact I can be a little bit frightening… But I type with expert timing.

everybody was gettin in my face fighting, i explain my points as fast as lightning…. in fact I can be a little bit frightening… But I type with expert timing.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone Parody for Cannabis Prohibition

Rewrtie of the lyrics to “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger

This additional verses were added to the song by Joe Hickerson. This song has been done by many artist over the years. I really love this live version by Joan Baez.

I have taken the liberty of writing this parody of the classic protest folk song for cannabis prohibition.

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the flowers gone?
DEA picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young clones gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the young clones gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the young clones gone?
been uprooted every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where has all the young hemp gone?
Long time prohibition
Where has all the young hemp gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the young hemp gone?
Cutting trees instead for every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the l warriors gone?
Long time fighting
Where have all the warriors gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the l warriors gone?
Censored content every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the graveyards gone?
It’s sad, I know
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

Breezy Wants you to write an inmate

Breezy Wants you to write an inmate

by Breezy Kiefair on Sunday, August 28, 2011 at 3:18pm ·

Below follows a list of inmates who would appreciate a letter. Please feel free to add other inmates in the comments.

~~~~~~~~~~~

2013-06-05 06.52.03 edit 1

Cannabis POWs that THE HUMAN SOLUTION would appreciate you writing

http://the-human-solution.org/prison-outreach-program/pow-stories/pow-easy-address-list/

Cannabis POWs:

Marilyn Hinda Green # 20400-075
FPC Alderson
Federal Prison Camp
P.O. Box A
Alderson, WV 24910

Gerry Lynn Campbell #20405-075
USP Marion
Satellite Prison Camp
P.O. Box 1000
Marion, IL 62959

Ronnie Smith #036312 Unit 4
Yavapa County Jail
Booking # 13-02676
2830 Commonwealth Dr #105
Camp Verde, AZ 86322

Israel Cavazos #63545-097
USP Florence ADMAX
U.S. Penitentiary
PO Box 8500
Florence, CO 81226

Jayme Jeff Walsh #125866
P.O. Box 490
Red Bluff, CA 96080

Jerry Laberdee #13904-085
FCI Sheridan
P.O. Box 6000
Sheridan, OR 97378

Shelley Waldron #16250-040
Lexington FMC
3301 Leestown Rd
Lexington, KY 40511

John Marcinkewicz #16252-040
Duluth FPC
6902 Stebner Rd
Duluth, MN 55814

Christopher Wayne Williams #11839-046
FCI Sheridan
Satellite Camp
P.O. Box 6000
Sheridan, OR 97378

Marion P Fry #15840-097
Dublin FCI
5701 8th Camp Park
Dublin Ca. 94568

Sherry Flor #11358-046
Federal Prison Camp
37930 N. 45th Ave
Phoenix, AZ 85086

Jeremy Duval #46344-039
FCI Morgantown
P.O. Box 1000
Morgantown, WV 26507

Jaycob Montague #16251-040
FCI Pekin
P.O. Box 5000
Pekin IL 61555

Bryan Epis #09636-097
FCI Terminal Island
P.O. Box 3007
San Pedro, CA 90731

Dustin Robert Costa #62406-097
Federal Prison Camp
P.O. Box 5000
Florence, CO 81226

Aaron Sandusky #63038-112
FCI Big Spring
1900 Simler Avenue
Big Spring, TX 79720

Dale C Schafer #15839-097
CI Taft
P.O. Box 7001
Taft, CA 93268

Richard Ruiz Montes #63130-097
FCI Lompoc
3600 Guard Road
Lompoc, CA 93436

Timothy Dellas #93161-011
FCI Sheridan Federal Prison Camp
PO Box 6000, Unit 5
Sheridan, OR 97378-6000

Luke Scarmazzo #63131-097
FCI Lompoc
3901 Klein Blvd
Lompoc, CA 93436

Charles Edward Lepp #90157-011
FCI La Tuna
P.O. Box 6000
Anthony, TX 88021

Eric Christopher Stacy #64977-097
CCM Sacramento
Community Corrections Office
501 I Street, Suite 9-400
Sacramento, CA 95814

Charles Lee Kisor #64974-097
CI Taft
P.O. Box 7001
Taft, CA 93268

Christopher Bartkowicz #36791-013
USP Leavenworth
U.S. Penitentiary
P.O. Box 1000
Leavenworth, KS 66048

Virgil Edward Grant #47375-112
FCI Terminal Island
PO Box 3007
San Pedro, CA 90731

Scott Eric Feil #14313-111
CI Taft
P.O. Box 7001
Taft, CA 93268

Marc Emery, #40252-086
Yazoo City, Med FCI
P.O. Box 5888
Yazoo City, MS 39194

Roger Christie #99279-022
FDC Honolulu
P.O. Box 30080
Honolulu, HI  96820

Ronnie Montojo Chang #28613-298
220 W C Street
San Diego, CA 92101

Older addresses

~~~~~~~~~~~

Floyd Martinez

#66119

P.O. Box 777

Canon City CO

81215

*** Breezy has written Floyd herself…  a few times over the years.. he’s cool.***

~~~~~~~~~~~

MARC EMERY #40252-086

FCI YAZOO CITY – MEDIUM E-1

P.O. BOX 5888

YAZOO CITY, MS

39194

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Ken Burke #10021-091
Federal Correctional Complex
FCI Victorville #1
P.O. Box 5300
Adelanto, CA 92301
Would be cool if it were someone in California because then there would be the possibility of a visit too!! I think he has about 5 years left…not sure why he’s in there but he’s definitely on the weed team.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Darlene Spears #131779
P.O. Box 392005, Denver, CO 80239
Breezy’s bio-sister says this about Darlene:

She was my cell mate when I was doing my time. She’s doing life without parole…She’s accused of murder…She told me she’s innocent. She’s accused of murdering her husband she claims that her husband told on some people down south and that they were the ones who murdered him I liked her a lot..Sad they gave her life without parole

~~~~~~~~~~~

this inmate has been released
Ronnie Smith
c/o Yavapai county Jail
Inmate #036312 Unit 4
Booking # 13-02676
2830 Commonwealth Dr #105
Camp Verde, AZ 86322-9998

~~~~~~~~~~~

BREEZY WANTS YOU TO WRITE AN INMATE!Related Articles:

The Story of Angels on the Pass from 1981

by Breezy Kiefair on Wednesday, December 22, 2010 at 3:17pm ·
Archangel michael

The Story of Angels on the Pass from 1981

By: Breedheen Keefer AKA Breezy KiefAir

It was the Winter of 1981. We lived in Grand Junction, Colorado. My child’s mind seems to remember that it was Christmas time, but isn’t any winter Christmas time to any child’s mind? My mother had gone out shopping. I’d been left with my father, my uncle, and his wife while ma was away. I remember that I had been sent to my room and told not to come out. After hours of playing alone, as I was often prone to do anyway, I fell asleep. I was jarred awake by the sound of my mother screaming. I cracked the door of my room to listen. She was angry because the quilt she had made by hand was ruined. I understood that there was blood on it. The rest I didn’t understand at all. I knew she was furious, and if she was furious, then my father soon would be too. I had heard enough to know that it was probably best for me to close my door and wait for the violence to pass.

I heard blows land, both verbal and physical. I cried and looked at my picture book wishing that I knew how to read. I just wanted to escape. In time, my mother came into my room. She was red in her face, and red on several parts of her body. She grabbed my little red jacket, picked me up, and put me on her hip. My two elder half brothers and full blood sister and ma with me on her hip headed out to the car and piled into it. My eldest brother was in the front seat with mom. I sat between my middle brother and sister in the back seat. As we pulled out of the driveway, a few snowflakes began to fall.

“Please Almighty, don’t let it snow too much. Don’t let them close the passes.” My mom muttered under her breath as she dried her tears.

“Where are we going mama?” my two and three quarters year old voice said.

“To Grandma’s, and I don’t think we are coming back here.”

I was puzzled. I saw that my brothers and sister didn’t even have a jacket on. My mom hadn’t brought anything with her like she usually did when we went over the mountains to visit grandma. We drove for what seemed like forever. The snowflakes got larger and more frequent. My brothers and sister fell fast asleep. Only my mother and I were awake in the car.

Finally, my mother got to the mouth of the lower pass. There was a road block set up. The snow had closed the pass. The officer smiled at my mother. “If you hurry, you might make it to Wolfcreek pass before it closes. Its a lot steeper and more dangerous, but if you have to get over the mountain with those kids, it may be your only chance.

My mother turned back to head for the higher, more difficult and dangerous pass. My adult mind remembering the event knows she must have been terrified and doubtful of her chances that the pass would still be open by the time we got there. The snow increased, it was a proper blizzard by the time we got to the entrance of Wolfcreek pass.

There were officers posted there too. My mom got out and checked her snow-chains as she was required. As we pulled to the entrance, the officer explained that we were to be the last car let over the pass. They were closing it behind us. He advised that she stay near the 18 wheelers, but don’t follow too closely.

So we made our way up the pass. The blizzard increased to a white-out. I remember the massive flakes flying at the windshield and my mothers wipers trying madly to keep up.

“Put angels around the car baby” my mom looked back and said.

So I did. I put my tiny little two year old hand in the air. Fingers extended and moved it in a circle.

“I’m putting angels all around the car. They are going to fly us over the pass.” I repeated over and over.

My mother’s face looked no less worried. The wind was howling, as it had been for hours. She was tired. I could see it on her face. Then, suddenly, all was silent. The car seemed warmer. We could see nothing out any window but white.

The silence hung in the air for a few minutes. And then I blurted out, “Mama, can’t you see the angel’s feathers?”

My mom looked at me like I was insane for a moment, then she really looked.

To this day, she swears she doesn’t remember making it to the climax of the pass, or making her way down, or much of anything before she got to the city limits of Canon City. But she does remember the warmth, the silence, and the feathers of those angels who came to carry us over the mountain safely.

This is one of my earliest and clearest memories. Believe it or not, that is your choice. I was there. Just thought I’d share.

Who We are, How We Came to Be, Why we Give back

Article I wrote that was published in Cannabis Health news Magazine February 2010

need proof that it was published (i know many of you do…http://cannabishealthnewsmagazine.com/PDF/CHNM_Feb2010_small.pdf )

The below piece is to be published in the next issue of Cannabis Health News Magazine whose editor is Jason Lauve. Jason was acquitted of all charges by a jury on August 6, 2009. He has been a tireless advocate for Medical Marijuana patients in Colorado before this date and since.
Kiefair Keepsakes…. How we came to be, Why we give back

Copyrighted material All Rights Reserved see message at the bottom of essay

I tell you this story, not for myself, but for those in similar situations without the strength or ability to speak.

The government of the United States and the State of Colorado (as well as other states) are all saving a ton of money due to the growth in the medical marijuana industry and so are the dispensaries and caregivers. As a patient caught in the middle, I decided that I may have a unique perspective on this issue and have decided to throw my two cents in on the topic.

If you listen to the news, it seems to be the government officials vs. the dispensary owners. here in Colorado. This should not be the case. The patients needs should be at the heart of this discussion, particularly the needs of low income medical marijuana patients on Social Security Disability and Social Security Income (SSD/SSI)

I posted much of the content you will read here all over the internet in an effort to help myself and others in my position. I sat in the online forums begging:

“Is there someone, anyone out there who hears my plea and wants to help me actually do something other than sit in online forums and complaining about the problem and hope someone does something”

I was heartbroken to find little positive response and a lot of negative/cruel responses by persons who clearly are recreational users and not medical users. The treatment of women in some of these cannabis forum rooms was often appalling. I finally decided to stop beating a dead horse and set up a store front to help me get the funds I need for my own medicine, food and other needs and to donate 10% of our profits to provide medical marijuana for free to low income patients in need. Currently we have only one dispensary signed on with us, GreenBelly Co-op LLC in Eldorado Springs, Co.

We encourage other dispensaries and caregivers to join with us in this effort. The funds to be donated will be held in trust and dispensed when/where they are needed according to the needs and location of the patient in question. A patient from your area would contact me, then I would contact you to confirm you have the stock necessary for the patient and to confirm availability of time, I would then deposit money for their medication into a paypal account owned by your dispensary. The patient could then come in and pick up their necessary medicine. I require no investment on your part. Patients would report on the quality of your medicine and I would then write their reviews and forward their recommendations (no names attached) on the net. Everybody wins. People who wish to provide money for the trust can purchase anything in my online gift-store or my personal catalog. 10% of my profits go to this fund. Hopefully a larger and larger percentage of profits will got to the trust when my personal finances allow me.

When I began to write the essay that I posted in the online forums, I decided that my joining the Medical Marijuana Registry was my Christmas Present to the American Taxpayer for the year 2009. And posted the title as “My Personal Christmas Gift to the American Taxpayer.”

Now, you may imagine me as the stereotype of a “stoner” that has been created by the media. Let me correct you
First of all, I am a female over 25 and under 40 with severe and debilitating Fibromyalgia, the kind that forces doctors to shake their heads and prescribe one ineffective man made medicine on top of another while I waste away and my quality of life diminishes. The onset of my symptoms began almost instantly after my birth in Canon City, CO and I have been fragile ever since. I’ve even been told by a doctor or two that may well have one of the worst Fibromyalgia cases on record. I was a ward of the State of Colorado until I ran away when I was 16 due to horrid abusive conditions within the state foster care program and completed my high school in another state.

My sole health insurance is provided to me is under medicare/medicaid. This is because I am completely disabled and the doctors do not allow me to work, or even to attend school. I assure you that this is only for the time being… I am getting stronger all the time!

In 1994, I was awarded Ginsberg Scholarship up at Naropa during the 20th anniversary festival. I dreamed for years of attending, but my health prevented it. I finally got stubborn and bullied my doctors into letting me go. I was accepted into and attended Naropa University for two semesters in 2007-2008 school year in an effort to get a degree that would give me access to jobs more suited to my bodies abilities, and was pulled out by my doctors both times. Naropa wanted me there, I wanted to be there, but government programs required I be enrolled a certain amount of credit hours (beyond the abilities of my body) in order to keep my funding. I attempted a semester at Grand Canyon University online in Fall 2008 to the same effect. Now I have many thousands of dollars in student loans I can’t pay because I attempted to get a degree so I could get a job my body could handle.

I was forced to be on government programs like Social Security Disability and Social Security Income (SSD/SSI) at a young age. I was in middle school when I was put on SSD/SSI for the first time while I was a ward of the State of Colorado.

Let me clarify, the first time I was put on disability, I was a minor and the State decided as my sole legal guardian to place me on disability. The state “adopted me” in a sense.My name was changed legally and my parents rights to me as a child were formally, legally and permanently terminated. None of it was not my choice (except the name change after years of foster care), it was not discussed with me, I was a child. My medical care as a child was much as it is now, with the exception of the fact that kids get a bit more coverage. Being on the program at a young age, I did not accumulate much in the way of work money in my SSI account, although I did attempt to work several times. Unfortunately every time, an employer or doctor would get tired of me being sick and put a stop to it one way or another. That is why my monthly amounts from SSI/SSD are so low, not because I am disabled, but because I couldn’t work to pay into the system like the people who receive these benefits only when they reach retirement after a full life of paying in. Also did you know the government actually Penalized people for getting married if you are both on disability? They treat you as one person and give you one person’s pay! For love, and for spiritual reasons I decided that was a risk I would just have take. So, I married my love who happened to be on disability also anyway.

Now I ask the members of the Government of the Great State of Colorado, if you had an adult child who was sick and suffering would you leave them to languish in pain and poverty just because it was no longer your legal responsibility? Of course you wouldn’t. You would do whatever was in your power to make your child as comfortable as possible.

As an adult child, I now boldly but humbly step up to my adopted parent, the Government of the State of Colorado, and ask, “Guardian Colorado, do you it intend to focus on the dispensaries who are the money in this discussion, or do you intend to focus on your citizens whose LIVES are being saved by this plant? You discuss care giving so much in this debate, but the treatment of patients on the part of many in this debate has proven differently. I know you have hearts, please use them as you consider these policies. This shouldn’t be a partisan issue. This should be a people issue.

Before I was placed on the Colorado Medical Marijuana Registry in June 2009, I would have to visit a doctors office several times a month, sometimes several times a week, sometimes with several appointments booked the same day with specialists and tests, painful and difficult physical therapy that seemed to harm more than hurt, etc., and there were to many trips to the emergency room to count.

I went to the ER out of sheer desperation, I went just so I could get comfortable enough to have a bit of sleep after a week or more of lingering in a painful place that seemed to be located in deep within the realm of a narcotic distorted pain haze, a no-where-land that seemed to be somewhere between life and death. The doctors in the emergency room and elsewhere often treated me as though I was an addict, and not a pain patient, AND I WAS MISERABLE!

Since I was approved for the medical marijuana registry I haven’t needed near the amount of services from the medicaid/medicare program. In fact, I’ve had to see a doctor twice since June 3, 2009 when the doctor signed my forms.

Once to have 14 teeth pulled, a little bit of dental work made necessary by a combination of years of no dental benefits unless my teeth couldn’t be saved and needed to be pulled, being on narcotics for almost a decade, and dealing with severe nausea/vomiting/malnutrition.

The other doctor visit (and medications that followed) were for a bad cold that I caught at the dentists office. I haven’t seen a doctor at all otherwise, although I do call my family doctor to check in and let her know I am doing well.

Before I was on the MMJ registry, I was on so many medications (20 plus medications taken at various intervals though the day) that I felt like I was taking a pill every 2 minutes…. Number of traditional prescriptions I take daily now – ZERO.

Now the government was paying for all those medications I was on before through medicare/medicaid, plus all the doctor visits to get, maintain, and change dosing on those prescriptions right? Some of those medications by themselves cost the government thousands of dollars a month! Many could not have refills on them by law and required a doctor visit every time I needed more.

I always felt guilty about my personal burden on the American Taxpayers. But now I don’t have to feel guilty cause I have given a present to the American Taxpayer. I got on the MMJ registry. Now I do not go to the mainstream doctor unless I need antibiotics. I am off all prescriptions. I had tobacco quit (been trying for 20 years to quit) until I was without medicine too long and got stressed out, but I plan to quit again.

I and am well enough to manage a website as well as volunteer and be an advocate for others in need. I have regularly traded my services in clerical/computer work either from home or in the GreenBelly Coop LLC office for medications when I am strapped for cash. All of these things would have been impossible for me nine short months ago when I was all but bedridden and and in so much pain I had to keep myself from overdosing.

The government is saving many thousands of dollars a month on me alone, and yet I have to struggle to obtain this money saver for the American taxpayer. That much cut in government spending on the part of an individual… I should get a medal or something. Now think how many individuals are saving the government this money in the State of Colorado alone…. Let alone the other 13 states and the District of Columbia! We all need medals or medicine at the very least!

How many others are there like me? Meanwhile, the price of my medicine increases as the MMJ movement grows. My family and I have been stuck having to make really hard decisions like, do we pawn our wedding and engagement rings to get my medicine? Or do we pawn them and buy some food? Or do we keep the rings for sentimental reasons, lay here and just starve and have seizures from pain and lack of medicine/food.

I ended up pawning all the rings, having already sold else of value to the pawn store and bought both medicine and food. The money I received for my treasured bands did not buy nearly enough of either medicine or food. We promised ourselves we would get them back, but I ended up crying my eyes out when I realized I just can’t afford to get them out of hock. The deadline to get them back passed weeks ago. I live in a Winnebago and have been in real danger of starving to death at times. Now don’t get me wrong, my life has been profoundly changed by this medicine, and any hardship I may have to endure is truly worth the benefits of this plant. I will not compromise and go back to the narcotics and other prescriptions just because I can get them paid for or for any other reason. I would rather be in pain when I am without my medical marijuana than take a morphine and get sicker.

Sometimes family members and the community can make it very hard to be a low income medical marijuana patient too. I have heard many stories of people not living with family/friends any longer because they are shunned for their medicinal use. I’ve experienced this shunning first hand myself. The stereotype of the “typical” marijuana user is further damaging these people with no where else to turn!

This herb is profoundly changing lives! It is healing people, body, mind, and soul. Yet its legal users get treated as if they are using it for recreation. I believe recreational use is a VALID use of the plant, further I feel it be legalized and would be an important source of revenue for America if it were to be legal once again. However, that is not why I personally NEED this plant.

This plant allows me to eat, to sleep, to get out of my bed, to manage my pain enough to have a job, to be involved with life instead of living in a nightmare world just praying for the end to come soon. If you happen to be a Fibromyalgia patient praying for the end, you can be praying for a long time as this is not a terminal disease.

The Mayo clinic website (see footnote 1) describes symptoms of Fibromyalgia as including

Signs and symptoms of fibromyalgia can vary, depending on the weather, stress, physical activity or even the time of day.
Widespread pain and tender points
The pain associated with fibromyalgia is described as a constant dull ache, typically arising from muscles. To be considered widespread, the pain must occur on both sides of your body and above and below your waist.
Fibromyalgia is characterized by additional pain when firm pressure is applied to specific areas of your body, called tender points. Tender point locations include:

Back of the head, Between shoulder blades, Top of shoulders, Front sides of neck, Upper chest,Outer elbows, Upper hips, Sides of hips, Inner knees

Fatigue and sleep disturbances
People with fibromyalgia often awaken tired, even though they seem to get plenty of sleep. Experts believe that these people rarely reach the deep restorative stage of sleep. Sleep disorders that have been linked to fibromyalgia include restless legs syndrome and sleep apnea.
Co-existing conditions
Many people who have fibromyalgia also may have:

Chronic fatigue syndrome
Depression
Endometriosis
Headaches
Irritable bowel syndrome (IBS)
Lupus
Osteoarthritis
Post-traumatic stress disorder
Restless legs syndrome
Rheumatoid arthritis

And a whole host of other conditions not on the Mayo clinic list.

Moder Western medicine can’t even agree on the causes/mechanisms of this disease because they don’t understand it.

It has been suggested that this is a psychological disease only, a psychosis created when a hypocondriac hears about fibromyalgia. The advocates of this theory say that the symptoms of this diesease are all in the patient’s head. I do not personally believe in this theory, but even if this disease is all in my head, the medical marijuana still helps.

Other sources on Fibromyalgia suspect that this disease has been around for all time, a genetic disease with a trigger, and its symptoms are found even in individuals of remote tribes of Africa and the Amazon who have no contact with the west. So why should I use new untested man-made medicine created by people who don’t understand my disease and possibly believe it doesn’t exist? Especially when that disease has been treated with herbs known to posses pain relieving qualities for many generations of humans?

Personally, my last completely “pain free” moment was around 3:30 PM on August 21, 2002. I know because I keep a detailed pain/medication journal in an effort to regulate my condition. I am confident that If I had the proper medicine, I would have pain free moments again. This herb doesn’t just treat pain sensations, it helps correct causes. Perhaps with the right regimen, daily pain could be a thing of the past for me.

This disease itself may not kill you, but it can certainly make you wish for death. There are near epidemic levels of Fibromyalgia patients and pain patients in general who are hurting so bad they are suicidal, or worse succeed in taking their own life. I have a brother who died as a result of a doctor who wasn’t paying enough attention with his pen and prescription pad. After years of pain and suffering following a head injury, my brother died of a drug interaction prescribed by his doctor.

Dispensaries are necessary, but not without a social conscience
Now the other side of the coin. It is no secret that the people who own dispensaries are making money on patients like me too.

We need these dispensaries for a variety of reasons.
1)What would a patient do if their caregiver had a bad crop and was without medicine? If that paitent was restricted from seeing other caregivers they would have no where to get their medicine but the street.
2) Our caregivers are restricted to a number of plants they can grow for you, thus if you become tolerant to the genetics of one strain of medicine quickly and need to change the genetics of you medication often, it may be difficult for your caregiver to have/maintain the variety you need.
3) Competition strengthens customer service and prevents patients from being in a form of bondage by their caregiver. If we restrict patients from going to other dispensaries, how are they to know if the medicine they are receiving is the best quality available for them. If we restrict the number of persons a dispensary can serve to a tiny number and prevent patients from seeing other medical marijuana providers, and in addition the number of times a year they can change their caregiver, then patients must settle for whatever medicine a particular caregiver is giving them whether it is effective or not.

We need a program to help low income patients get their medicine!
If you are low income and can’t afford your “mainstream pharmacy” medicine, you can go to various organizations and they will help you to buy your medicine, sometimes even on a regular basis if they are necessary and not covered by insurance, but that doesn’t include medical marijuana.

If you are brave enough to speak up and ask for help getting your medicine at these organizations, you will probably find the door closed firmly in your face. You may also find that other services from the organization become difficult or impossible to obtain as well. This is out and out discrimination in my opinion. If your medicine is MMJ no one is willing to help you unless you happen to be lucky enough to find a care giver who actually gives a care if you have medicine or not! I just put my medical costs on a new food stamp application mailed 1/13/09 to Boulder County. We shall see what happens.

“So what,” you say? Well let’s look at this… The high price can force a person in my position to go back to buying their medicine off the street where it is less expensive, but also less potent, less safe.

1)You never know what has been added to you herb to increase the genetically weak herbs potency artificially with other street drugs or various substances to make it seem as though there is more weight to the medicine.

2)It is much more dangerous to obtain, and the process of obtaining it can be a risk to your health in many ways. Long periods in the cold and encounters with strange germs can put a person right back in their sick bed or the hospital.

3) The money spent on street grade medication often goes back to fund gang and criminal activity. This is something that most medical marijuana patients do not want to support and got on the registry to stop supporting. I personally counted avoiding purchasing on the street as one of the largest pluses to getting on the registry, and yet I see people like me being forced back there.

4) The price of cannabis on the street directly influences the costs of Medical Grade in the Dispensaries. In this respect, Cannabis is a commodity like any other, and as such is subject to price fluctuation when artificially influenced. It doesn’t really have anything to do with how much it costs to grow it and transport it to the patient. It has to do with how much it costs on the street.

What is to be done if you have no medicine? Where can you go?

There are few funds or organizations willing to help people like me get my medicine when I can’t afford it, and you have to really dig in your need to find them. When I did find them, they could only help once or not at all due to the demand. Many patients do not have the strength for this search when they are lacking appropriate medication. It took me months of daily web crawling to dig any up organizations up. Now people who wish to help provide medicine to people in this position can buy something for themselves or someone else, something they may have bought anyway and someone gets medicine.

If someone who has medicine/money wants to help a person in my position, likewise there is no way for a person who wants to help to donate money to people in a position similar to mine. Right now low income persons only relief seems to be individuals/churches/caregivers being kind. So I created this gift company, and here we are.

One church I know of is greenfaith ministry. The Reverend of greenfaith ministry is also known as the 420 Reverend. I have had contact with Reverend Brandon Baker from this organization who is a great man. He drove over 50 miles to get me some medicine for free. Unfortunately he is one man and the demand is high. Rev. B Baker is quoted as saying, “Tell the (Denver City my edit) counsel a majority amount of local churches support un-regulated access for all needy mmj patients, give them my name and number if they say they want to meet with any of the spiritual mmj community church leaders!”

Meds for free? What about Caregivers and Growers needs?
Now, I have no problem with the idea of paying for my medications… The person who grows it provides a service that a dollar amount really can’t be placed on and should be compensated, and so should everyone involved in getting the medicine to me. That is only fair. But I want know the money I spend helps others like me or at very least the movement in general. I also don’t need to be paying 50+% of my income to stay barely comfortable. I’d like to be able to pay a reasonable percentage of my income and have all the medicine my body requires. I know that may seem a little unrealistic, but a girl in pain can dream. lol

Here in Colorado it is the wild wild west right now. If I happen to have to go somewhere other than my primary caregiver, my $ will probably end up in a growing bank account of some green gold rush eyed caregiver who could really care less if I have effective medication or not. In fact, it seems like the only green anyone cares about is dollar bill green and the green of greed. Yet the right to visit a dispensary other than your caregiver is a necessary one. What happens if your caregiver loses a grow? What do you do if you need a different strain of medicine than what is available that day? What if they are out of the product that helps the most? Would you refuse to let me go to W@(m@rt if W@lgr33ns was out of my prescription?

So the government ignores the money it saves, and many (not all) of the dispensaries in the area seem to have little social conscience about the price a person like me can pay to have their medicine.

A Big social Problem, and Yet We aren’t the Issue, money is.
When your total family income is at or below poverty levels, you can absolutely be forced back on the streets to get your medicine. My medical condition requires a minimum of 1/8 oz of smoke-able every 2 days to just to keep me off narcotics and other prescriptions that do more harm than good, not crying, not having seizures caused by pain, and not be stuck in bed.

This dosing by no means keeps me comfortable it is important to note.
I have NEVER had the pleasure of having enough medicine on hand to decide on what a good “comfortable” dosing schedule would be, even though I do have a compassionate caregiver. I just don’t want to put my poor caregiver out of business taking care of my needs.

What I am trying to say is that there is something fundamentally very wrong with the fact that there are so many people who are to poor to even know what the appropriate dosage of medication for their amount of pain, yet the government is saving a bunch of cash and the Medical Marijuana industry is getting the “lion’s share” of the rest of their income.
It is frustrating to feel like you and others are falling through the cracks even further. Many in my position were barely hanging on before the economic downturn, and now see no light at the end of the tunnel. SSI/SSD keeps you far below the poverty line if you have been unable to work enough many living on $1000 a month or less for their whole family.

It is frustrating to see others get wealthy off of you and others while your tier of society starves. Sometimes I feel invisible, and I know for a fact I am not the only one out there feeling this.
Why do the out of state interests get a louder voice than ours?
I was born in the State of Colorado. My family has lived in this state for 4 generations (or more.) My grandmother owned and operated the Historic Stirrup Ranch near Canon City, Co. for many years. I love Colorado, but I live in an RV and am so desperate to be in a place where I can have food and medicine that I am willing to move to any state with a registry because the climate here is so difficult for patients right now.
I have a plan so that if I were able to obtain some land, I could be self sufficient (NO MORE SSI/SSD and I could actually contribute to charities instead of needing help from them!) and never have to worry about being hungry or without my necessary medicine. In time, many others could be helped with food and medicine grown on the land. I could be fulfilling needs rather than begging to have my needs filled.

Kiefair Keepsakes, stepping stone to a dream

My dream is to be able to get some land and set up an initial grow op in earth ships (a growing movement of building practices with an all environmentally friendly building/management philosophy.) This initial grow op would end up growing into a Nonprofit Medical Marijuana retreat/community/caregiver for patients like me to be able to get their medicine and/or live in a more affordable and kind setting, using their personal talents and abilities to benefit the community. I want to focus on what a “disabled person” can do, not their limitations. I want to create a place where it is safe to be sick on a daily basis with no fear of hunger, lack of medication, or fear of the loss of a job/home due to illness.

While I have the heart and the ability to do this work (given time and medication), I unfortunately have no capital for such a venture and am praying the universe will see fit to make it happen.
I have researched many aspects of this and it is very feasible, however getting investment in such a venture is not my forte. This kind of setting would be great tool for a “for profit” dispensary to use. It would be publicity, demonstrate social conscience, and you could also offer my nonprofit medications cheap to their own low income patients. inquire further at kiefair.keepsakes@gmail.com

I just wanna say Thanks to all the people out there helping to make it possible for people who need this medicine to have it. Whatever you celebrate this or any season, may it be meaningful and may Blessings come to you all!

footnote 1 Retrieved from the Mayo clinic website 1/12/2009
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/fibromyalgia/DS00079/DSECTION=symptoms

Copyright 2009,2o10 by Breezy Keefer, owner Kiefair Keepsakes All Rights Reserved
Please copy and redistribute with attribution of source!

hey, vote me up on miss high times please!!! 10 is high, 1 is low

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