![]() ![]() Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.Ĭut the ties you have to failure and shame. When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time. The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more. The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves. Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.īe respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.Īsk their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them. They sit before the fire that has been there without time. Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.Īcknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean. Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control. Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop. The fantastic and terrible story of all of our survival No bullet holes, man, and eight cartridges strewnĮveryone laughed at the impossibility of it,īut also the truth. The car sped away he was surprised he was alive, Where our hearts still batter away at the muddy shore.Īnd I think of the 6th Avenue jail, of mostly NativeĪnd Black men, where Henry told about being shot atĮight times outside a liquor store in L.A., but when ![]() What can we say that would make us understandĮxcept to speak of her home and claim herĪs our own history, and know that our dreamsĭon't end here, two blocks away from the ocean We keep on breathing, walking, but softer now, Unimagined darkness, where she is buried in an ache Of blood and piss, her eyes closed against some Grandmother, folded up, smelling like 200 years On a park bench we see someone's Athabascan Which is another ocean, where spirits we can't see It's quiet now, but underneath the concrete Once a storm of boiling earth cracked open Who are ice ghosts create oceans, carve earth It hasn't always been this way, because glaciers This city is made of stone, of blood, and fish.
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