No baby, you can’t take me for a ride,
I’m not a car, not by far.
I’m a shooting star
whose legs only open to fate,
and we’re not destined for eachother,
so why even bother?
This sacred temple was not built
for fun and games.
Not that way.
Not that way.
In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.
When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”
“A box of darkness, a gift.”
I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.
For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..
voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”
Fuck you black bastard, no!
I won’t join you.
I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.
A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.
Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing
My blood origin is water but thicker than any oil. We were the people of the rapids, always following the tides in and out, as far as they could carry us in our birch bark boats. My grandfather the great Eagle spirit, who could be called on the wind at will, would carry the message of love across the rivers. My father the feathered dancer, always ran with the shadows, ran with the quick horses, wild across the prairie sky, far on towards the high hills, westward to the mountains. He caught the rapids in his veins, the eagle song rushed through him too fast, and I lost his tracks on the wind, it beat quick through his heart like that rabbit on the rails who cried from the weight of the train cutting across his leg. Love is mercurial this is what I chased. I danced with strangers who I hoped could show me deeper into what I felt behind my eyes, spirits passing by like clouds, dark over my head, deer child in storms, under cover of night, crying to the pleiades, snared beneath a thousand shooting stars, willing forward. This is who we are, these are my kin, wild on the hunt, with a scent in us that says love is of this, caught between these river rocks, these feathers, this sky. We follow that scent towards eachother like wild animals marking their journey home again, we will meet at the shore one day. My father visits me in dreams, speaks through the others, offers symbols to guide me closer to the turtle of truth who rises up towards the light. He told me of the 7 teachings, the sacred ways we follow, a path of shells. The beaver works hard to build up these twig towers of hydro electric power that allow us to connect. But the buffalo speaks of respect, tells me “we all have a gift, don’t waste yours, for if beaver did, he would grow long in the tooth and die,” and then we would have a great loss of life, a loss of light to lead us through these dark times.
Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Bird, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, creative, Earth, Environment, First Nations, Fish, Folklore, Forest, Freedom, Identity, Indigenous, inspirational, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Saulteaux, Self, Shadow, Soul, Traditions, Verse, writing
Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.”
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.
Jesus Christ of urgent care.
Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing
I’d long ago escaped impact,
using anybody as selves,
wants opening poems into a very
structured form of other,
war, blood, rose,
stilettos on whores under
the electric lights
Then love got in my blood, and they said my type was so rare, it might not exist in the veins of any living other.
So I sought out the corpse of words, ashes of tongues entering other mouths, long ago erased from history.
The Anglo- Saxon and Roman bred with Greek and Latin, to invent English and enforce it on savage lipped strangers from other shores.
Somewhere in a hidden cavern under a Spanish night, the one person who held my secret laughed reckless off the edge of a cliff into nothing, and they could never find a cure for this thing that lives in my veins, I tried to bleed it out of me, I tried to make it fly, but it never fled, as much as it bled, it never escaped me.
I only learned to lessen the blow of it as it trailed behind me on the wind, always with a newly transfused smile of joy and a fresh cut of agony.
If a whore is the worst a woman can be is that not inequity? But that she crawl cave-ward, face veiled by niqab and pray for mercy? But that man crawl from cave to cave lunatic raved taking as many precious jewels one can claim, should be his manly fame?! Were woman to submit willingly, she would be bathed in scarlet shame and marked unworthy for eternity. That which makes man idol banishes woman to hell. He sees woman’s body his right to take and conquer, something over which she has no power. That by man she could lose face and be so disgraced is the deepest form of hypocrisy. Men remain ageless in their power and sexuality, yet women fade from the sky at the high tide of their maturity. She has no worth outside her youthful body, which she never had mastery over by such base and backward standards as these, but to please man. Condemned to death in old days for being the king’s unwilling mistress, her body became a hindrance, worthy of praise only in the gaze of lust, a cat call, leading to her downfall. In modern days, the countless cases of women in places where red lights glow with sirens as blue flashes immerse, she is locked away for selling her only worth to the men who are spared their part in the crime for which they pay. Even in this day and age we live in an outrage against love all the more because real love cannot exist where such dominance breathes down the neck of a whore.
Filed under Abuse, Bondage, Control, creative, Feminist, Gender Issues, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Love, Niqab, Pain, Poem, poetry, Prostitution, Rape, Repressed, Rhyme, Sexuality, Verse