to kill any horse around
 
welcome to the place
where laughter died
 
where the dreams of
innocent children are
hung from a tree for
the birds to pick at
and eventually
slaughter
 
where the crosses are
burned with the same
gasoline that the police
use to trap the wrong
colors on the wrong
street on the wrong
side of this town
 
where the ghosts have
enough drugs on them
to kill any horse around
 
where old poets seek
a quiet death in some
abandoned relic of a
vibrant past
 
when the creative ones
only have violence left
 
run for the fucking hills
--------------------------------------------------------------------
nice and festive
 
they have the christmas
decorations up at the
hospital
 
they look nice and festive
 
it's a quick smile before
the doom starts a few
doors down
----------------------------------------------------------------
sink deeper
 
old lovers laugh
at me as i sink
deeper into this
fucking depression
 
all chances now
officially pissed
away
 
toxic isn't even
the beginning of
it
 
but the urgency
of now still exists
 
one fist for the bottle
 
both fists for the gun
 
there's bound to be
a cold, lonely night
before too long
---------------------------------------------------------------------
i should change my ways
 
my doctor told me
the other day alcohol
was slowly killing
me
 
i laughed and said
my plan was finally
working
 
he didn't seem
amused
 
told me i should
change my ways
 
that train left years
ago i told him
 
i'm closer to being
one of my heroes
now
 
he said i should
pick better ones
 
i laughed and told
him if i would have
had his life of privilege
maybe that would have
been possible
----------------------------------------------------------------------
a little closer than these old people were comfortable with
 
i was following a
blue car out of town
 
i was running late
and the blue car
couldn't give two
shits about going
the speed limit
 
i never tried passing
the car
 
i probably did get
a little closer than
these old people
were comfortable
with
 
i breezed by them
once we got on the
highway, never
bothering to even
look over
 
i was on the off ramp
getting ready to turn
when that blue car
came by in the other
lane honking the horn
and giving me the finger
 
i laughed
 
hopefully, i'll get the
chance to see that blue
car in town one day
 
you know, return
the favor so to speak

THE BLIND ARCHER

Oh Love, how unfair and rude are you
Shots without permission, of two hearts, one
Makes him suffer the pain of heart, one blur hue
While the other freely live in vain and fun
With your arrows and bow, one like the mouth
of a bay, you’ve made many a deceived sheep
fall in love with the mouth-watering wolf, its death
While he thinks he’d give him a sound sleep
And Echo with Narcissus, the narcissistic angel-boy
That her voice, in the cave she waited, vitiated to echo
And through you she avenged on the one that toy
For you made him fall for a self-nymph, his reflect

Harmless you look though armed
Can’t see that, because you’re blind
Though sweet you infect, you’re wicked

But the love of Aphrodite, your mother
Is one soft, gentle, loyal and tender
For she comes abreast only when you bid her
That sweet I crave for in, and further
On her lips I slept off when I kissed her
For her love compared to yours is sweeter
Shall you continue to make monkey fall for sparrow
And you, partially with Psyche, but your bow and arrow

                      Streams

Stepping across, carefully, there’s a stumble

built into this, a foot on the closest stone

then onto the next and next, till you have

crossed with your feet, shoes almost dry.

I did this in a dream last night, like when

I was young crossing that stream by my

in-laws camp in Bakersfield. It would be full

in the spring, the water racing downhill and

only a trickle by late summer. Crossing was

the challenge and I was young enough to do

it without thinking twice. And I remember

the stream up by Bingham Falls, even earlier

high school, college, and when I was first back

around here. I would step off and feel safe, so

surefooted that it was just another thing to do.

Now, even in my dream, I stumble then step out

and over, afraid the whole way, as if the streams

have been waiting for me, as cocky as I was,

waiting for me, ready to get their revenge.

 

             Flee

They flee from me

from fear or instinct –

grey squirrels, the few red

even chipmunks run

scramble away

and birds of every feather

color and size, fly away

from something they fear

and yet

there I am, filling the feeders

sunflower seeds and seed mixes

handfuls of peanuts every morning

a free soup kitchen of sorts

but they flee from me

even when I use my soothing soft

voice, the one I reserve for small children

and animals of all sorts

and I make a real effort to seem

harmless, calm, slow moving

and yet

they flee from me

as if there’s a line we never can cross

and they’ll flee from me

regardless of what I try to do.

 


                Last Day

With one day left before you leave

Planning becomes awkward

Dividing time between

The obligatory and the sentimental

Between the need to go and

The urge to stay

The what to do next and

The what can be left undone.

The hours slow down and

Then disappear

Get used up and are gone

As you become gone.

Last time I was caught in this

Awkward setting, this space and time

Twenty-four hours left

I walked around taking pictures

Random pictures of the place

I was leaving –

The table and chairs we sat in most

Afternoons, reading or just watching

The water around us

The statue we liked – that rabbit’s head

Its ears flopping forward

Even the couch and bedspread

And a single picture of my right foot

Held up to show the carpeting and how

Close my wife’s foot was on that carpet.

More the sentimental than the obligatory

But that’s what I did.

A PORTRAIT

Her eyes followed me,
Not like many portraits.
It was a sly shifting,
There and not there.
Her breast seemed to heave,
Much like her eyes stirred.
She lived for a moment.
I wondered why.

i-fifteen

Sourdough and sharp cheddar—
enter the daily entry into the journal—
a quick lunch with a politically kneaded history.

ii–three

Say cozened, repeat.
The red-tail on green carpet.
Only in pencil.

iii–two

Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A chorus of scolding greets steps.
Twelve days of abundance won’t quench.
Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A squirrelish racket among the leaves.
There is no song titled “Plight Of.”
Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A chorus of scolding greets overstep.

i-nine

(so servile have i lived to my fears)
for a short while
i’ll have a cookie—


ii–one

Reminisce at the padded
rataplanning of flam 
taps. Ruminate. Lament
my atrophied sticking.
The nuisance dog notices
it’s been making no noise.
Resent my easily
exhausted grip. Notice
the Chinaberry tree
newly leafing. Mimic
the mmmzing of the bumble
bee at the screen. Another
pickup pummels down the road.

Before the monthly Native Alliance potluck dinner in the church basement got underway, Dede (Hoopa) carried a smoldering chunk of sage in an abalone shell around the room. Dede was thorough, offering the smoke to anyone who wanted to smudge. At the front table, which held the donation basket, flyers advertising upcoming powwows, and information packets about diseases and various kinds of help, she paused to let a group of women standing there each take their time. She then strolled into the kitchen where people warmed up their food contributions on the church’s stove or arranged cookies from a bag onto a plate or poured themselves a glass of juice.

Next, she walked over to the drum circle in the back of the room, where Norris (Choctaw), offered traditional rhythms and songs. He wore what he always did, work coveralls stitched with Norris on the left breast. This evening, the circle seemed less energetic than usual, the singing less robust. Norris kept pausing, patiently helping a teenaged girl, a beginner having trouble keeping the beat. The fact that a female was allowed into a drum circle would not have sat well with some tribes, especially if the female were menstruating. But this was an open-minded group.  Another drummer, Charles (Lakota) expressed particular gratitude to Dede. He was having arthritis problems, he said, and after gesturing the smoke over his head and shoulders, lifted each leg to let the medicine go under his feet. 

When Dede finished her rounds, including various clusters of people already claiming their dinner places at one of the dozen or so round tables, she joined a table herself, of three other women. After smudging themselves, they resumed their conversation, typically about life. Sandra (Coastal Miwok) asked Dede about her ex, still in prison. A newcomer didn’t know about him and expressed concern. Dede shrugged. “Three strikes, just drinking, we’re Indians of course, then boom, 25 to life.” Nods and head shakes accompanied her recital. 

“Anything violent?” asked Sandra.

“Nothing,” Dede answered. “Never! And now he’s grey, turning into an old man. Not that cute grass dancer I fell for.”

The subject turned to the powwow last Saturday. “Chuck went, I couldn’t get off work,” said Roseanne (Yurok). “Work meaning babysitting my granddaughter.” Work and no work led to talk of health insurance, as it often did, and this evening to the urban Indian clinic, its pluses and minuses. 

At a shout (“Okay!”) from Anita (Kiowa), who founded the Alliance decades earlier, people stopped whatever else they were doing, got up, and formed a hand-holding circle, unclasping to make room for stragglers. The circle this evening included some 30 people, two with walkers, one with crutches, and five children. 

Anita asked Norris to say a prayer. He raised his head, his long black hair brushing his shoulders, closed his eyes, and spoke at length in Choctaw, which he then translated. Part of it went, “Thank you Creator, for making me an Indian.” 

Many prayers followed his. For individuals with cancer. For families of the  individuals. For the drought-stricken land. Happy announcements came, too. Celine (Yakama) said her daughter just got accepted to Dartmouth.

As usual, the circle included a few non-Natives, brought along by Native acquaintances. Sometimes strangers showed up, uninvited. One difficult evening, a banged up blond drunk staggered in from the church parking lot. The elders conferred, then sat him down on one of the pews lining the basement hall and brought him a plate of food to help him sober up, even though – a significant consideration – a prayer had not yet been offered. He was absent tonight. So was the sad-faced wannabe, a thin woman who felt she was “Indian in another life.” A few regulars were wary of her. “Needy,” said Daniella (Pomo). 

This evening the group comprised more or less the regulars. An accountant, an engineer, a seamstress, an occasional media celebrity, a nurse, a counselor, a museum employee, retirees, a number of people between jobs. 

Following the prayers, the circle broke up into a line for the food (“Elders first!” shouted Anita). As usual, the two food tables, one for desserts, one for everything else, were covered. This evening’s bounty included several casseroles of such dishes as spaghetti cut small, with hamburger. It was not the only contribution that had the look of leftovers used inventively. Something else with chicken, it looked like, and celery. There was also tonight the taco melt Diane (Sac and Fox) usually contributed, and the tossed salad a white guy always brought. 

At the table where Dede sat, conversation continued about the Indian health center. You have to be eligible for medical first. Disgusting, said Sandra, after chewing on a piece of chicken Thomas (Ohlone) brought. Thomas always brought chicken. She said she herself is lucky, having health insurance through her pension with the state. Even for teeth and eyes. “These glasses, seven bucks!” Murmurs reached over the hominy stew and Lina’s (Onondaga) chocolate cake. Each woman had placed a square of it on her paper plate next to her main meal choices, in case it disappeared before she went back to the dessert table. Lina’s baking was always a hit, even when she tried a vegan pie. 

Sandra, the enviably insured, used to drive truck for the state, she said. An 18 wheeler. This impressed no one at the table. Roseanne had been married to a truck driver before Chuck. “15 gears, right?” she asked. “High range and low range.”

“My rig had 10 forward, two reverse.” Sandra shrugged. “Some had more.”

The women hooted about drivers of little Hondas who think you can stop on a dime if they dart in front of you. “You’re lucky you don’t run over them. Literally. Turn them into a pancake,” said Sandra. She now makes jewelry she sells at powwows, and wore several bracelets of her own design. Truck talk led to recollections of shifts and rest stops, of truckers getting robbed in some overnight truck stops, not to mention the presence of “lizards” – prostitutes. Lina liked the fenced in places where you could pull in for the night, be safe. A fastidious woman, she had placed a piece of her own cake on a separate plate to take home to her husband. Lina oversaw cleanup after the potluck, too. 

“Showers,” she added. 

Showers, the other women agreed.  Sometimes that is all you want.   

In Canada, the rest stops, camping places, too, are unbelievably clean, added Dede. Harrison (Cherokee) from the next table heard her and agreed. “Spotless!” he exclaimed. Dede said that’s where her ex wants to go if he ever gets paroled. Canada. Some of his people are up there.

The drum circle started again. Harrison, finishing a cookie, rose to join it. Tonight there were six drummers: five men and the teenager.  

At the table of the four women with and without insurance, husbands, and jobs, conversation stopped entirely. Nodding in time to the drum, they moved on to their chocolate cake squares.  Some evenings they and other women pulled fringed shawls from their big purses, wrapped them around their shoulders, and danced slow swaying movements, circling the drummers. This evening nobody danced. 

“It’s been a long day,” commented Roseanne. “I’m pooped.”   

More about Alison Owings here. She's an editor and oral historian who has just completed a book about a formerly homeless man.