Of Bread

Something is happening here. In a world of drunken arguments, fist fights over stolen hearts, and eating stolen bread. Where mouths scream until the sun shows light. Each one in a box. Children sleeping on dirty floors, running down rural roads and loving in ramshackle, subsidized housing units with neighborhoods named after European saints. Following the same dim line of some idealistic European societal guide lines.

What is happening? Our only plan is to try to understand. Our only civil strategy is to hope and catch up.

 I thought keeping up was something I needed to do. The need outweighed the lesson I was supposed to be learning. I guess stolen bread tastes so much more sweet once you forget the work behind lifting the piece. The taste was only worth its value if nothing kept you from just that first bite. Because all the work in the world didn’t feel worth the pain of being tired and lonely. Native people are almost never entirely alone.

The drunks have a warm enough bed. The abused mothers have a kitchen stalked full of surplus governmental food. A widowed father has his beer and the next ex under his arms, and the messy children have a family they know as complete. It’s a whirl wind of tragedy and work that almost always goes unnoticed.

A Kind of Dirt

The flesh and the blood of a forgotten being

It still drips from dew-mist of an oak tree and the blades of green grasses

It pools within an impression on the earth

The impression of a fallen body

Looking closely you can make out the hands, the feet,

even  where legs had kicked up dust,

wildly whirling a deep pattern in the dirt

You know that someone had laid here,

someone had to have knelt here

Possibly, someone had died here

Leaving their life here as well

Leaving from this place.

From The River

Leeching Up From the Ground Into Our Bodies,

It is the Noise We Have Heard Time and Time Again,

Some Lecture Which We Have All Grown Tired of,

The Meaning was Lost,

Our Cause Lays Just at Surface Level,

Growing Stagnant,

Even as The Warm Winds Blow in From All Directions,

The Ripples Glide Over One Another Like Oils,

Are Never Really Eternal,

Floating in a Mass of Silence,

Lost in a Ring of Echoing Dark,

Particles Latching On,

Cannot take the pain of opening your eyes,

My People Are in Two Worlds


All around me. Do I realize what is happpening? People standing up. Perhaps it may be the only time that I can make that statement ; PEOPLE ARE STANDING UP. In the streets, on reservations across three continents. What I can presume as my people, because like them I have made struggles, four generations of my family was birthed from the womb of chaos and degrating stuggles. My people today are throwing down the cold silence, the bribed exsistance of being a native in 2012, and they are standing up for the next four generations to come. As I sit and watch what is happening threw videos and even what is happening here in my home state of Arizona, I am brought to tears. I know that something is being cultivated. Something is trying to get its way out,and make itself known. We all as one unified movent get to become the recievers of that voice!

To those that make a choice to stan. I have much respect and gratification. “For bringing the struggle home”. I will be sending my morning prayers to Chief Theresa Spence. Who is living in two worlds right now.