all dreams come true
in the pursuant of conversation
while at a summer cottage retreat
from daybreak into nightfall,
workin the hands in independent accumulations
in a migratory nightingale:
acceptance, appeal, authentic, appreciation,
bletting in the ripening and softening in storage.
breakups, caring,
daydreams, emotions,
farewells, friendships,
goodbyes all to common.
hardships, intent, internship,
jawbones cuttin out from the heart by the high tide
of the seas as if the tongue laps coastal shores.
kilting in the word wraparound.
love, ladyship, lucidity,
morphing in metaphors.
mahogany in drippin wet curls.
musicals at calypso resorts.
naiveties, notepads burstin like nutshells.
orbits around letters.
occupiers of the lines.
personal to promotional.
pressed in the releases.
questions in quagmires.
romantic in the coleridge rimes with frosty coats.
supplier of a summer dance hangin off the moon.
teacups for two in the tear-stains
of correlations in adult lullabies playin in the background.
underground in the unzips,
and uploaded in harmonic utopia.
vesta at the sacred altar
strikin a short friction match,
as if at the fireplace in the cottage
to symbolize the family
that once lived in it,
will one day rub off on its occupant.
weathered like a bunch of beans -
wallpapered in the layers.
it’s not quite complete.


feelin grounded -
in a well grounded
peaceful environment,
is an absolute compulsion distinction.
it’s that feel of being on a crowded airplane
with that all cramped up arrangement
depictin life’s existence,
while crossin the french alps
in a heavy rain,
and enduring massive air pockets of disturbance.
pryin open the lotus,
in a visual to grow
brighter n brighter,
requires massive muscles.
here the eye-lids flutter,
while the most of delicate changes
enhance thought forms,
in a workin me over n over
with utter enthusiasm
in my subconscious mind
without me know in it.
as it may,
it snuggles words up against my ears
to counteract rocky disturbances.
suddenly, the last thing
i want to do -
the very thing
I need to do:
get it down on paper,
so the positive moment
can holler
at the top of its lungs.


when babies cry,
i have to leave the residence.
it’s from being higly sensitive to the sound,
and from havin flashbacks.
when my youngest son was born,
i was workin seven days a week,
twelve hour days.
on top of that,
had a part time job
workin fours hours a night.
the one i was with
didn’t want to work,
or even take initiative
to have formula ready.
back in the 80’s,
ya had to boil water
and then add the formula.
didn’t get much sleep
during this stretch run
of workin so many hours.
still, i had to get up
and take care of the child.
he had colic in the worst way,
and it’s no wonder
life back then was a nightmare.
i had too much responsibility,
and sometimes i just have to hold back
the watery eye treatment.


It’s when a man
reaches deep within,
and reads himself,
and in conjunction
while doing that,
he’s readin into -
how she wakes up
in the mornin beside ya,
because he spent the time
holdin the pen,
as if she was leaving
soft strokes
in all her curves
on the paper,
as it left a pure outline
into the plot carried out
from her soul
on how to be magical
the moment
you took the time
to read her into your writing !!

Police Brutality Against Black and Brown People: We’re In This Together


we are a nation of great people. we need not be abused or stereotyped by the color of skin or are demeanors.

Originally posted on Oscar Hokeah:



Native people are the most loving people in the world. And it makes sense—so many of us have seen this movie before.

We got our own problems, right?  Still, ever since the Michael Brown tragedy in Ferguson, Missouri, I’ve received hundreds of Facebook messages and emails—Native people understanding the connection between black folks’ interaction with law enforcement and Native folks’ interaction with law enforcement.  The Natives who’ve contacted me seem to know, “We’re not saying all police officers are bad.  Heck, most are ok.”  But those Natives know that when things do go haywire and a police officer does do something bad to someone, it’s usually someone brown. And when that brown-skinned person is killed or hurt badly, it’s usually for something small.  Insignificant.  Something that doesn’t deserve deadly force.  Like allegedly stealing cigars.

That’s rough.  But to quote Bill Murrary in Stripes, “That’s the fact…

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if i may,
take pulls from the 1955 classic movie,
“seven year itch,”
starring marilyn monroe n billy wilder.
to visualize monroe’s dress
blowing up a subway grating,
is all to metaphoric
for all that is annoying
in a work life sitting on a forklift.
it’s a contagious skin irritant
in the scratching of scabs
of mis-aligned social behavior.
marilyn has always been
an aura like queen in my heart.
this french arrogant spirit
running in my genes,
is appropriately imagined
for those that know a little history.
this die-hard urge to move on,
that’s just not limited to marital infidelity,
leave bold words
from all that difficulty
in needing a life for utmost relief.
maybe it’s time it reaches paris
while standing high up on the eiffel tower.
all these years as an adult -
it’s been incredibly unfaithful
in the creative exacerbated eye.
wouldn’t it be something
if this was ran in US newspapers?


absolutely right now,
here at this place -
symbolism is an integration
of the big three -
self, soul, and dreams.
it’s a wild-eyed spiritual developer
when it comes to triangles.
it’s a 3D apparatus
in greater spectrums of awareness,
commanding power in blades like razors,
of which is so natural in energy,
it’s like a bunch of windmills
standing tall where the winds make them hum.
it’s a little psychic,
incredibly bountiful in emotional affairs,
as if hanging in the appalachians
in the catskills of the empire state,
where the highest peak
is needed for engagements in viewable perspectives
in a slide mountain
take it to resorts in popular vacation sightseeing.
all this build up of wonder
is the pyramids eye
dangling in the triangles
straight out of the third eye
that’s invisible in my forehead.