Another night like so
many others.
A night made up
of the dope laced hours
that slowly  made up a life.

A black cat laid curled in
a tight ball on a worn wine stained carpet.
The fluorescent light of the Atrium softly
lit the otherwise darkened room.

Quiet except for
the hum of the refrigerator and the tiny waterfall
that trickled away inside the Atrium.
There was music playing,so low it was as if it was
something that came from a dream.

Two lost souls took their places at either side
of the counter top and dove deep into
their demons.
Both quietly concentrated on their potions.
The tiled counter top was littered with
paraphernalia,empty beer bottles,ashtrays
that needed to be emptied,
lighters, burnt spoons,tin foil and empty plastic baggies.

One chased the dragon,
while the other desperately searched the crook
of his arm for a vessel.

There wasn't too much conversation.
There was only one  goal here.
And it didn't involve
words.
The silence was broken when one lost soul
said to the other,
"I don't dream anymore".
The one with the harpoon in hand said.
"You have to sleep"
The dragon slayer replied as he exhaled yet another
slayed beast.
"When I sleep its like I die".
The Archer said as he pressed the point
up against a blue black dying vein.

The black cat stood and stretched as a siren passed outside.
Another dragon was slain as the siren faded
into the night.
The one with the point drew blood and smiled.
The slayer chased another dragon,then looked
over as the black cat climbed to the open window
and out into the welcoming night.

"Then that's the dream"
the dragon slayer said then smiled a smile
that only a poppies blood can produce.
The harpoon handler looked up and grinned,
then found his target and continued on with
his quest for the warmth.
He smiled to himself as he pushed on
the stopper and once again
played with death.

She taught me
about the way of things and
about the gifts that lay all
around us.

Her lessons were taught in
the old way,
through stories and songs.

I learned the most in the winter
months when the deserts clay
colored floor was draped
in thick high desert
snow.

She burned Hickory and Birch logs
in her old cast iron stove
and filled
the small cottage with the
scents of the earth.

I learned many things beside the
warmth of that old stove.
She would sit in her straight
backed wooden chair
and talk for hours while chain
smoking her thin,long,
brown wrapped menthol Mores.
Running her earth toned
hand up and down her mean
cats arching back.

I remember
the way she would pause and stare
at me before breaking out into a smile
full of tobacco stained crooked
teeth.
How she would laugh and call me
Big City while smoking
menthol's and drinking
sweet coffee.

I waited out mean winter storms and sat
through the angriest of monsoons
while listening and learning
within the thin drafty
walls of her tiny
cottage.

She showed me where God
lived.
And assured me that
my path would always
lead me back to here.

I learned how to
carve the soft roots of
the cotton tree.
She taught me
my first  Peyote stitch.

But most of all she taught
me the history of who I was,
who we were.

Her lessons have proved more
useful than any
of the lies I was made
to remember in public school.

The teachings by
firelight,wrapped in a
home spun blanket while
drinking scorching
hot chocolate made with mint
leaves and love.

Her voice I still hear
as clear as the
sirens that pass
outside my window.

The voice that
lives inside my head
is her voice
still teaching me in the
old way.
The only real
way there
is to know.