This early poem, published six years ago by Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine, accompanied my first sparks of awareness concerning shamanism, its power and inspiration.
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Hopi Vision
no answer from sand, quartz, or air,
their shattery, dissolving jazz.
none from clouds,
their addictive white thighs.
stones spew ochre
as i kick, as i watch a cactus
cry puzzled flowers away
frond by frond
into a pitcher of shadow.
i see now
this piracy we call time,
long spider whose legs never touch,
has no poison,
not even microbes, not even flesh.
nothing except a bitter fluid in the mind.
nothing should die
without sending its heat into a
naïve sunset. why must perfect mice
fracture off rattlesnake swords,
suffer a billion times,
as many times as there are daughters?
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