This is our violence
Shatter brackets ripping through
Cleanly pressed materialism
A bomb drops
And two children cry
One for mother sky
Two for dust around
Tie a rock to the bottom of our soul
While tulips begin to grow
Above rusting piles
Of violent ricochet
Splinters of what should have done
But left walking alone
Through feral fields
An effort spent
Into misuse and abandon
Which we voted for
And raised flags proudly.
I am sorry kind gentleelk
I have never been to the Rivers Pass
Though I have heard from friends
That the water there
Is exceptionally clear
I once had an Uncle
Who would go every year
For what he would call
Elaksation Elkscursions
Mother would roll her eyes
Whenever he would say this
I would ask him what that meant
And mother would tell him
Not to fill my head with such nonsense.
For three days we hunted
And for three days we found nothing
That would serve as any kind of sustenance
We of course found plenty of squirrels
And small birds to feed us
But deer, elk, buffalo, moose…
Nothing.
I woke up on the morning of the fourth day
Feeling like I had been charged with bolt of lightening
Awake from a dream that had left me silent all morning
As we packed up and prepared to break camp
Moon Cow came over and looked at my arrows
And asked if I was alright
I said yes, I’ve never felt better
And he asked about my dream
Moon Cow always had a sense about these kind of things
I think that’s part of the medicine man in him.
“When I was young
My mother used to come into my room
In the early hours of the day
And tell me that my father had just left again
She would cry to me
And I was..
Hardly able to understand what that meant
But her crying
Would alert me, and wake me up
And I would feel like I had to protect her
I was responsible for her
An assumed set of duties
That charged me with purpose
You should have seen me
Walking down the street
With two cents in my pocket
Going to buy the daily bread and a paper for mom
I’d say hi to all the folks I knew
And they’d smile back at me
Knowing and seeing the determination in my eyes
The responsibility I had in my shoes
They knew my father
Some would even stuff a nickle
Into my well worn pockets
I’d smile and say: ‘thank you m’am’
And charge off on my way
When I’d return home
Mother would be waiting with a broom
For the paper to devour
With the hopes she would find something better
For herself and me, I guess
In my dream I remembered my determination
For a better tomorrow
The perseverance that was required of me
I feel it now
And it makes me think about the future.
I went to the cliff on a twenty third Thursday
A hole in the sky was my overturned beetle
Who did arise from the galley below
Hades riding high with his ninety nine henchmen
Calling on the world to dispense with all destruction
Guilty was the verdict as the stallion roared
Twisting through thin pines with a mighty shine sweat
Chasing down destroyers of a fruitless life
Standing tall and proud without a clue in Hell
So consumers continued down thinking everlasting well
Little did they know Hermes made his call
Down down down did they all quickly fall
Weighed down with all their spoils rusting inside out
Burning all with fright as they clutched real tight
Olympia laughing now: seven houndred heard well
Deafening screetch of every stallion rider’s call
Thunder in the night as they took their last bite
Thunder in the night as seven houndred took flight
All around screams as seven houndred struck down
Systematic reproach to every vacant soul
As dusk settles in and so the storm it slows
Children survey souls floating all around
Sweep away the dust with a conscious thrust
And with the backs of ninety nine civil men
Everyone is handed two slices of bread
And sweet mother Gaia lets her hair down low.
Lain down
Despair
Wreathing mother,
I.
Phosphorescent
Finger tips
Dipped in pale
Candle wax.
Bright moon
Waning crescent
Gathering for
Omnipresent.
Glen to glen
I’ve wandered brooks
Searching for my
Crag with a hook
Little, though
My hearts dismay
Could effort swing
Precipice lay
For o’er lain land
My hoof she ran
Like orphaned seeds
Autumn’s light breath
Dagger be given
To the laughing lady
High atop as a
Clever tight rock
For no path could be laid
No gorge to ford
No eye to twinkle
Amidst sun-lit wrinkle
Now guide thee home
Pulse in thine known
I hear the clean broom
And dear Mother’s boom
Today is not your day
Said our witch into her hand
When this crow let out a clam
And sun washed desire bland.
Today is fast and past
When you sleep it all away
Keep your head up in blue sky
Let clouds be mother’s milk.
Mother’s miglets and
Bumbling bees,
I’ve done it again
Got honey on my knees
Holiday snacks get me lamenting.
All my sad songs
Repeating unto the end.
When whispers left lingering;
Sounds and voices.
I shocked
My mother.
Whistling another slow one.
I remember when the wind blew so hard one year it would blow over our tin cups that weren’t full on the old weathered kitchen table. Our house was warm when the fire was hot, and well ventilated in the summer – we can say that. It ain’t easy being a pioneer, when the land is dry and winters are cold.
The thoughts drain my efforts, drain my life. They’re happy thoughts when you remember the past, but they’re also jagged edges that twist the time away like yesterday was my mothers hand.
There should be holes in my heart with all the bullets I’ve let go. And all the tears that I’ve cried.
This life makes a man hard before he knows how to sing. Like the twisting pines around these parts that I know each by name.
And firewood.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]