The emotional caving of twigs beneath our feet
we are barely an excuse for respectable Indians.
The Painter of the night has frozen this timeless canvas
as he takes a large sweeping stroke across her would be pale throat.
Repetition of thoughts and the tiring work of scenery painting.
We marched backwards toward where we ended up and awoke upside down
where we intended to start.
Ear to the gray Earth Stones of Imagination and Thought
I heard the wild call of the Ancient.
"Follow the stream to Winding Mines, turn left and look your best."
Our horses painted all the colors of their personality.
Pale brown skin folding over khaki vests of war.
The quiet Indians lye dead on the side of the highway.
Vixen mud swished through his teeth as we passed,
Parents told children to cover their faces.
The Eyes of the Forest blink only when necessary.
The tiger snarled high above the tree line
as I drew my final arrow, blue suits were half off at Macy's
and sex was guaranteed tonight.

10/26/2008

Posted on 10/27/2008
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