I buried Wisdom & Folly at Indian Graves this afternoon

It was cut in three
The two halves I buried close to each other
When they come back on the next plane
They will have a better chance of finding each other in one piece

The tail, I left hanging on a tree

You don't need a tail to walk upright

Raven is near
She's paying her respects
And a Thunderbird does a fly-by

It's 8:00 and we have our whole lives ahead of us
Life is silly
I suppose this is who I am for the time being, it will pass
As everything does
So judge away, I'll play the defendant
Bang your gavel and give me the sentence
It's only a life time
It won't mean a thing in your eyes
There's you , then there's me
That's just it
That's all we need to know
To each their own
The quietness, silent only because they cannot scream for help forever
I think the nitroglycerin worsened my cough
Mother's face has been shot off
But father doesn't cry
His crippling soft lies
So I take my over stuffed overnight bag and leave
Eons later, The Wolf, The Coyote and The Raven come
And then all was well in the western hemisphere
All fires dissipated and they all began to rebuild, this time stronger than before
       -Tommy Johnson

Jew harp, Plath hearted, dream seamstress
who sits in the dark.
Who made me live here.
In a small room inside my head, little dictator
and I lit this place with music, just for you
Where all sounds but songs are dead-headed
Just before they bloom.

Totalitarian angel, rage-filled fragile smoke
who censored my tower of Babel.  
Who tamed my very rivers of song
to breathe the moon-tones as vapor, until as a sun  
you’d rise to scar these rivers, every single one
wherever you find them, with your face.
No matter how they run.

Paranoid animal with an understandable
aversion to caress and kinetic poetry.
Damsel who births her own dragons
like the fertility of hell, again and again.
Life and love belong to the monsters
the monsters you make of them
but all of them I’d befriend.

and I wonder.

I could chew my pen hand off
snared coyote.

I could swallow my tongue
dancing to dead note barks.

I could visually inhale that sun.
Take in all I can.
To get the eyelid ink spots.
The branded silhouettes
busying my eyes as I sleep
each night as I sleep.

Without this allergy to identity
you could turn this world backwards in me.
That hell of a snow-globe you hold
if only you knew what kind of world you controlled.