Summer, 2022 USA Tulsa, Buffalo, Uvalde, Highland Park… The tragedies continue to mount. While the Supreme Court, many States and local governments hold steadfast to gun rights, women’s rights to their bodies are in question.
The conservative Supreme Court reared its ugly head with what may well be the first of reversing long held laws effecting women’s reproductive rights and LGBTQ citizens.
We must continue to let our voices, votes, action be heard.
I’m happy to share an interview I gave recently, where I had the opportunity to respond to some general questions about writing and embodied the identity that I do. Congratulations to Rob Rocha, poet and musician on his new podcast.
A few reprints from MY BOOK OF THE DEAD are featured in El Palacio, a quarterly magazine which primarily serves the museums and historic sites of the New Mexico Department of Cultural Affairs. It is the oldest museum magazine of its kind, first published in 1913 by the Museum of New Mexico.
Upon the heels of returning to my hometown to receive the honor of being inducted into its literary hall of fame, two new Chicago anthologies with an essay of mine and a poem:
If you need inspiration and can join us, this is taking place at the end of the month in TaoS, NM
A Storm Upon Us
(In Memory of John Trudell, written upon the occasion of his crossing over.)
A storm is coming. It is on the horizon.
It has traveled far, fast, wide, and
taken much in tow, the storm
infused with lies and nitrogen. Water, air, ground—
infused, our fruit and animals infused,
our minds infused with lies and nitrogen. We’re dumb struck,
believe ourselves smart when we are, instead, confused.
The tricksters counted on our being caught unawares.
They knew our selfishness, greed. Most of all, fears.
The storm approaches. (Can you hear it?
Nine hundred and ninety-nine hoof-like vibrations beat against our eardrums &
we remain indifferent.) We have our things gathered. Our children
seem fine. We always rebound.
The storm comes and goes, returns. Next time, harder. We don’t even bother
with shelters. We give it new names, each time, further fire and rain.
We start again. It could have been you or me, we say, dying
in public beneath a baton’s blows falling amidst a spray of a sniper’s bullets,
but it wasn’t. We go on.
Disaster has happened to someone else.
We venture out and buy more. We take more. We discard. We pillage the earth.
The storms take sinister forms, go by isms, neo, and post-hyphenations. Be afraid, leaders of the faceless enemy, warn. Beware.
when you travel we cannot protect you. We will be vigilant of your whereabouts.
Our watchful Eye will know your life. Long lines to survive much less thrive lie
before you. You’ll feel shame like in naked dreams but worse because we, in fact
are watching you. We will make sure you don’t question.
And when the storm is upon you, when it has destroyed your homes, and your children are not fine and your dreams of golden roses and bright days are nowhere but in the pages of a storybook, we will be content in our heavens eating peeled
grapes, sipping fine wines from our vineyards of abundance,
sitting on our thrones,
new gods. We’ll smile down upon you
our creation of ruin,
pick our teeth with your bones.
And while we enjoy being outdoors, getting some sun, gardening, longer days, perhaps a road trip, I leave you healers, spiritual practitioners, curanderas y self-proclaimed brujx:
Next full moon, the 13th: