in 1492


if i had met columbus

on the boat

i would have hogited the

motherfucker

... and sailed somewhere wam

tied up my boat

shared everthing i had

and danced till i couldn't dance

any more

it seems to me

that what's at stake here

is the very way

we see the storm

you see

it's a much different view

when you're in the eye

when you become the eye

than when you allow your

soul to enter the dance of chaos

that surrounds

swirling in temptation

like a wildly drunken dervish

it seems to me

that the eye

the calm

the perfect balance

is where masculine and feminine

the divine

dances its own steps

where we emanate from

where we're called to

it seems to me

this eye

this eye

is calling

and what if we cast ourselves
as wizards 
of this great stew
what if we unfold 
that which
has never been 
seen

the new moon

wakes and pulls us along
cloaked in
whatever sustains
this emerging
humanity

these are good tears
and this is a good day
sweeping out every corner
mind body soul
dancing
into our
imagined
humanity

this poem is for dee dee

I am the wolf

you wrap your tiny finger around
a lock of my hair
your legs grip my waist
like a vice
your beautiful brown eyes sink
into my own
and your soul says
'i trust you'
i hold you close and tell you

voiceless

'i am the wolf'

your new mama gives you
pretty things
the glasses perched atop your button nose
your old mama couldn't buy
you giggle and serve me tea
but only in the kitchen
dorothy
not on the carpet

but her name is dee dee
dee dee, i cry
'we're using her christian name now'
says the new mama
dee dee giggles
but
no glasses
or pretty dresses
can hide the shadows
of her heart
'where is junior', she asks
'where is my brother?'

i hold her close as i say goodbye
she asks when i'll come again
rain crashes down my cheek
soon, dee dee, soon

as i open my book to record a note
i am the wolf

i see dee dee's mama
alone on the street corner
shivering, shaking
awaiting the next wave of ecstasy
to carry her away
i sit with her and she cries
she cries the stories of a hundred years
she tell what happened at
the mush hole
and the tears
become a puddle at her feet
she cries for all her children
gone to her, forever
she cries for her sisters and aunties
and for the moon
she doesn't know
anymore

the puddle swells into a river
holding each other, the rapids carry us
she cries for her father she never knew and for
the trees and sky and earth
who used to know her name
her tears flow like waterfalls
drenching the earth
in a great flood
she cries for her babies not yet born
and the medicines
she does not have

i hold her tight and we are washed away into the
wildness of her aching soul
and still
still
i am the wolf