Mowing down the verge of the horizon lines to be crossed and marked with an X, treks to another rising but not falling.
I want to drown out some misery and rebirth, rehearsals are over forever.

I walk along the path.

I travel.

I sleep.

In my dreams I saw dinner at some foreign table, in the middle of a cramped huddle. I forgot to tip the waiter. In the water, the colors of yesterday faded to a gloss. Mostly, I wasted away to the brink of my bones, a trading type of insanity at last. The glass was broken, but filled with sand.
My hands are sore from holding on too tight, so now it is time to let go.

I drank acorn mush yesterday. It tasted like the wind, and I imagined the years blowing softly as I looked out onto the trees and hills beyond the table. It was a hot day, and the people around me talked happily about life and death and all the things that make the days go by. A young man asked me as he passed, “were you playing with a poi ball?” I nodded. I saw him a few years ago the last time I went to the Patwin village. Next to the table was the pit where the tribal meeting house used to stand, long since burned and dismantled. The dust made me think of those dazed existence memories, settled into the dying odor of new growth. People talked story and I listened. It was one of those ways when I couldn’t really find the words in my mouth. My shark’s teeth and bare feet spoke for me.

Why do I fly? Why do I always wake in the shared stories of a thousand years? I sometimes wonder if my feet will ever feel the sea again. For now I swim in my imagination as it sets alight to the glowing embers which were just about to die. I cry, but I never feel the tears dripping from my chin. The story is sad but always the same.

I ate fry-bread, and then some rabbit. I had never eaten rabbit before. I saw a rabbit today at the park. Some Mexican children had brought it with them. It was strange to see them slip it down the slide, and cuddle it as they ran about chasing each other.

As I shift and change my body grows into a large mass of water, and I immerse myself into the cooling; I need to because the heat has torched my skin and I no longer recognize myself.

Rising from the ashes I glow with new feathers, and begin to remember how to sing love songs again.

Serenade me. I need to hear my heart beat in the chasm of my consciousness.

anger be gone

The morning voices linger linger linger long, and I pray for them to dissipate, anticipating final words that crack in the shadows.

Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?

Instead of my meander on a pathway of laughter and song, there is this other throng, yelps of accusations that threaten to implode upon each other as they create distance.
Aching resistance.

In this instance I need silence. And so I remember the scent of burning sage that bathes my weary ears and eyes.

No more rage.



Kanye West says “I’m a muthafucking monster”, but I can’t relate.

I know there are monsters but I’m not one of them because monsters hide in the dark.. the dark is where I feel like I shine. Once in the 80s or 70s or something I started reading “twilight” and I thought to myselfishmess… “fucking vampires don’t glow in the sunlight.” Vampires and monsters prey on me; the me that always used to pray to god and god’s illegitimate son who god fed to the vampires, zombies and monsters so they could live and breed forever in a mess of bombs and mines not yours. For a long time I didn’t believe in anything anymore…

I walked into a club in San Transisco and stepped up to the bar. There was a really kinda cute guy, he started to chat me up and I thought to myselfishmess, “shit betch, I like the guys in this city”. Covered in puke I hear the nurses saying, “well whoever he is, he has great shoes”.

Yah, it’s always the cute ones…

I had a beer, and then a tequila shot; Patron, I love tequila cos it makes me crazy and I forget to keep an eye out for the monsters who morph into morphine, soaking out the sun making shadows where the highlights the edge of my jaw, clenching as I try to remember what’s going on again.

Opalesque opiates that obscure the hazy memories trapped in my cramped muscles. Covered in someone else’s vomit I hear the nurses say, ”well whoever he is, he’s got a Masters in Globalisation or something”.

The other night I went out to the lake. Tarawera, it’s my favourite place in the world, pacing back and forth to the fishtrap tapping my happy tune, swooning to the swoop of the Tui as they flick flick flick their pitter-patter in the air that does not kick the bucket. I can breathe there, and I stretch out in the water, my body dissolves and I imagine I fill the lake. Lately I need to go there as often as I can because I’m trying to wash it all away and find that grain of sand they’re holding at the end of The Never Ending Story. Horis lived there in the olden days and that’s why I love it, cos they were my Horis. I dive over the edge into the pit that the eruption filled with my ancestors…Horis all of them, and then some not, because everybody has to experience loss to experience finding… beautiful Horis with stories that floated to the beginning of time. They are my beautiful stories that whisper “lake boy, come play your poi beatz to us then listen to our voices in the water as you etherize the blows caution to the wind, winding into the depths of bluegreen blackness.

Throw away the junk, sunk like some alien spaceship covered in weeds and bones and dust that sifts like silt from the clubs where the monsters thrive.”

I dive in. I don’t stay there too long, just long enough to infuse my tequila drenched pores with new memories of things less toxic.

And then I find myselfishmess stumbling a wending pathway from the toilets, asphyxiating from the blurred lights and the djs spinning to infinity and beyond reckoning, I beckon to myself…”is this really where you’re at these days?” Unfazed but totally dazed and nights merge and I stumble into the guy from the bar. Thank the dead god he’s there to take me out of the clubs, walks me up and down the street where I can breathe to be clubbed on the back of the head by his waiting friend. I think this time I’m really dead.

Why are there so many monsters when the water sparkles on the other side of the world, waiting for me to come home and wash it all away?

My Navajo Aunty took me outside and we mourned silently together as she lit the bundle of sage and let the eagle feathers bathe me in a numb serenity. I can’t wait to get on the plane and go homo never again. I ain’t no faggot, betch…not anymore. I’m nobody’s betch. I’ve switched onto a new channel, channeling something I didn’t ever imagine I had in me.

Covered in the sickness of somebody else’s craziness; the world goes mad, I try to remember how to find my way back to my friends. It’s early in the morning now, on a Sunday. That’s god’s day. I can feel the repulsion of everybody I pass on the street, but I’m used to being the trashy betch that got too fucked up and ended up having to spend my church hours blurring the edges between the real and not so real; passed out on the tram as I try to fumble my keys into the locked door. This is the church of the chasing demon drug dealers. I used to really love all the drugs and the liquor. “You bought her, you lick her” is what my friend Dennis used to say…but nobody wants to lick me cos I smell like the gutter where the homeless people vie for pole position as I lie there trying to make my limbs carry me back to the lake but it’s too late because I can already hear the nurses say, “well whoever he is, he’s all fucked and waking up in the beep beep beep… do you have a phone, do you have anyone you can call to come and get you on the other side of the world?”

“No, I don’t really know where I am…I only had a beer and a shot of tequila.” This time anyway…

There are lots of feathers falling to the sky these days, and I keep finding them. My Peyute, Navajo and Unanagan sisters told me that feathers are prayers from our ancestors.

I have been lucky… I think in the past week I have found three Tui feathers.