Red Room Where the Writers Are

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"apples for sale, apples for sale..."

wherever i look the people are at a loss,
‘we've got maggots in our sauce'

seeking water along a red road
i pass aunties hawking a load
of twisted economy of authenticity,
why even car dealers have ‘dignity',
they must be quite funny
selling lemons in Dine

going thru her open door on my birthday,
i beg goyeng suhuti to weave my way.
an unattached, disconnected, clear coloured spool
is all the advice she'll give this poor fool

i beg in fevered dreams
‘it can't be as it seems,
do not leave it in my hands.'
she sends me to wander the lands
from the ancestral desert of my soul
to a northern island black hole

rocked by waves thru the night
i am tossed, giving no fight,
harassed by ravens and a crow
in kim's fog beneath the stars i go

at my shaman's burial mound
a few lost souls were found,
such as that damned saint
with his magdalena taint.
the eagle's from their view
pull my heart completely thru

back again i returned,
carrying scars well-earned,
down south for fried chicken
and a chief, grief-stricken

uncoiled pottery echoes with emptiness,
dead aunties' heavy spirits bear witness.
while on the holy mound
white men shit on the ground.
a good old man weeps
as pocahantas' children sleep

digging to reclaim our traditions
we wrestle with your perceptions,
i worry about my daughter's blonde hair
when we struggle with what's fair

not a one among us can deny
those of our brothers who steal and lie,
our greatest defeat comes not from ‘them'
but an overflowing we must stem.
our great nations will continue to fail
as long as we have apples for sale

now i will walk upon the onaye tlan
hoping to lead as those who've gone