All we want:

hair on our arms
to stand up on end
often

a smile that splits the face
immediately after

calm after that
peace and secure
warmth spreading

belly and chest
swelling with a spontaneous
song
sometimes an anthem
sometimes a hum bent
toward one particular ear

unshakeable faith
that if this is the last time
any of this will ever happen
it will only be because
this is the moment
of our last breath

Starved plants visible
in the windows
of Hilda’s house.

Hilda’s in
assisted living now.
It was the neghborhood roaming

in her thin housedress
that brought her family at last
into town from the suburbs.

They’ve moved her closer to them.
They sold her car.  Other cars
I’ve never seen before

are over there all the time.
A lot of stuff’s been carried out
and stashed in a silver van

or loaded into the big
silver pickup.  They come
and pack up and leave.

The leaf stems on her plants
look like threads now.
The stalks are drying; I’ll bet

they’re stiff and would break
if anyone touched them.  No one
seems to have touched them

for a long time.  That seems
a little evil in the middle
of so much urgent care.   

I used to shovel Hilda out
in the winter.  Each of us
took our turn at that.

But now there’s no car
to dig for, no Hilda here
to worry about.  

It’s going to be
a different winter
around here. 

Set your stance,
know what your moral is,
and go.

Stay linear.  
Stay arrow-
tuned into target.
Announce
your target.  Announce that you’re
setting the arrow to string.
Announce that the string is
made just for this and any music made
by the humming string
is incidental to the shot on target.
Tell the gallery that the bow is tool only
and its arch is not beautiful on its own.

Fire directly on the target, flat trajectory,
do not raise the point higher than is necessary
to strike the bull’s eye.  
Do not cry 
for the bull, suddenly blinded  — note only 
that the target’s been hit.  Make this 
whole theater last a set while —
sit back, wait for the scores,

and while you’re waiting marvel
at the ones who hit the target
by pointing the arrow left, right,
up, or down true vertical, letting it fly and then
watching as the music of the bow and string
sing the point curving home
to incidentally return sight
to the wounded bull.

Say,
I could never do that.

Say, 
I am doing that already.

Say,
I want to learn that music.

A movie we’ve been watching gets up,
leaves the theater,
goes down the street for a smoke.

A building the approximate size of the screen
bursts and falls in, smolders for a while
as the movie passes by.

Once it’s gone
the building reconstitutes a few inches farther East
than it had been before.

All the deaths that resulted are voided,
but the people don’t recognize each other now,
even the ones who have worked together for many years.

Meanwhile, back at the theater,
we have barely noticed that the movie has gone.
We’ve been too busy thinking of our lives outside.

When we come out, the movie survivors
point at us, say we’re a little different.
They say we’re a few inches farther West than before

but at least they recognize us.
As for themselves, they don’t know that they’ve changed,
treat each other coldly, aren’t saying much.

The movie, by now, is on a bus for the next state
where it will perpetrate its flight and its magic on others.
We’ll issue an arrest warrant for it but it will elude capture.

It will show up on our late night television screens
and we’ll point and say, “here’s the bastard vision
that has caused all the trouble,” but no one will move

on apprehension because we have come to recognize
how much we need it and its messy path.
We wouldn’t dream of stopping it — can’t dream at all, in fact.

Whatever that is shining behind you

Whatever that Maker of Shadows resembles

Whatever the nature of your Shadow

Whatever you do with the Shadow
Whatever your fear of it
Whatever the bead of sweat on your back tells you to feel

Whatever your holy books tells you
Whatever any God-keeper says you should do for penance
Whatever the fetish you keep in your pocket prescribes
Wherever the trees tell you walk to avoid your Shadow

Don’t listen

Turn and embrace that slippery wraith and listen to the whispered name you were born with
The one that no one wants you to know
The one that holds your power
The one that the rest of this forward lurching world seems to have forgotten

The one that grounds you

The one that explains why darkness trails you even in the strongest light
The one that makes the light visible at all

You!

Tower of smart dirt,
intelligent water, 
column of excited minerals
drawn up into a storm
of atoms chattering of prophecy
and the pure light
hidden in crevices:

all you want to talk about
is money and power
and the end of the world?
Get serious.

This world is not going to end.
Our species may shuffle off at some point,
perhaps soon; other species will fall with us,
there will be suffering, it’s all a big mess,

but your atoms are going to keep talking
and in a thousand years
come upon better truth
than you ever conceived…
or the same truth you won’t acknowledge now:

we’re an extension of
the pure thought of stones,
as ruled by infinite gods as they are.
Nothing’s going to stop them
from thinking, no matter how hard
we deny.

You!
Get serious.
Ease suffering, redistribute wealth,
play fair, establish guidelines,
make this a comfortable grave indeed,

but do it because it is the call of joy
to do this,
not because you will create
anything lasting
by doing so.

Coming down
like a rent-a-cop’s
six D-Cell Maglite

every word of hers
an angry unlit
potentially blinding torch

whupping heavy on my head
whapping crunchy
on my wrists and knees

like I was a poor concert-goer
caught lighting up in my seat
who backtalked her at the wrong moment

and with a soundtrack at 140 decibels
she did me in one blister at a time
until I crawled out from under

and ran for the exit
that black pipe full of lead
whistling in the air behind me

though all it was after all
was words — electric words
that didn’t even light up the room

but laid themselves hard
on me until I burned and ached
unnoticed by the cheering crowds

knowing I’d feel this one for days
and this time the ringing in my ears
would not be pleasant to recall

I say, ah well.

I’ve spent too many years
dreaming of death,
longing for it,
to be afraid of it.

I may have abandoned
the headlong pursuit of it
but that doesn’t mean
I’m not enjoying this slower ride.

As for the end itself:
it’s just like
going over
a divide,
and I can’t speak for you but
I’ve always most loved that moment
in a mountain journey
when you can first see
the other side.

Luther,
who grew up on
the reservation

with my father,
said tonight while we were all watching
the news:

everything here’s occupied
and has been for years —
why are they so willing
to say the word now?  

And why should a change
in occupiers matter to those of us
in the less
than one percent? Everything’s

stolen — how the thieves
divide it
doesn’t matter much
to the robbed.

Not sure as to what to say to that —
half of me nodding my head,
half of me wanting to hide.