Let the Words

The days have streamed by now as in a haze.  Time has made it so. Shadows were the way once.  By their height and their wanderings, people knew,  They felt, the passing of days. It was not time once.  Time never was but always is. Escape. Uproot.  Words spoken long forgotten.  How you wish you were there. The chime of the clock The stabbing of the spear. The flow of water from all  We hold dear. Blasphemy. Death. Resurrection. Death again.  Constantly consuming without regard.  We wonder upon the wasteless earth, the supple fruit of its beauty,  All trodden under our own ambition. Thought. Idea. They make it so.  We wonder without recognition of things holy.  Cocks and tits.  There's the rub. The wishes and the wells of humanity.  Caught between the sweat and the moans of all glories and deceit.  Wanting pleasure, a fleeting thing. One that slips between  Fingers like memories.  Chainsaw. Sawdust.  A cross cut down, falls in the city, no one hears it.  A man sits in his bathtub, ha

I wonder if, when Freud was doing lines of cocaine, he'd taken the time to look in the mirror at himself. There must have been one nearby, though I can't be sure. I wonder if Freud would have been struck by the odd visual projection of reality he was witnessing – one in which reality was reversed, the other in which reality took on different textualities and meanings. Mirrors and cocaine, working together to distort reality. Of course, Freud had other obsessions. Maybe he just kept running lines until he tripped on his naked subconscious. * * * There was a time when people believed in my golden radiance. When my sunshine locks, gave a sense of home to those that have traveled so far. Still, today, for as long as I can remember, children of all persuasions greedily smile at me. Rub their snotty hot noses in the cluster of my gold dust pollen, like flightless huge lumbering bumblebees. As usual, they will pluck me from the earth to wear as crowns. I anoint immature queens. Gi

There is hope swirling round neon Lights. Open says the window of Our desires ATM whispers sultry sticky sex Man stares. Unblinking. A need. A want that melts plastic. He won't Be Refused Spits twenties on his cock Come again soon, its beeping Laughter says. He smiles. Satisfaction Guaranteed Neon screams with excitement Flamboyant colors cast into Rainy nights. Pavement moans Eating this color Red sign. Sways on spider Monofilament line. Dances Gayly. A familiar friend Coke Brown is purity it says Waltzing all the while. Bubbly tricks and treats Beneath cold hard skin Black Bar-B-Que, smoldering Baby. A whimper echoes through Fluorescent  aisles. Marked down From thirty it shouts Food for the family in Summer Time sun. Tears on charcoal Evaporate fast Mommy begs the child, shitting Their pants, licking wrappers With pretty colors I am it. It is me. Plastic wrap around children's Faces. Candy for the masses This is where sweetness lives Mother whispers.  All abstraction. Gifts

There is nothing in this flowing Feather pillows ripped open Beaten against concrete walls They flutter and twitter, giddy In blankness It is not gray nor black I Dunk my head in buckets of  crude oil. Take thick hopeful  breaths Why won't it take me? Where is suffocation Amidst this emptiness? "Arise, son of destruction! Be not at rest in this hour Of End." It is hollowness in a void Standing, I let Black Trails slowly cascade Down my naked body Over concaved collar Bone. Across dark hard Nipples It is time. Strike goes the match. Crackle goes the phosphorus. Humm goes the flame. Nothingness burns.

Honey are these words They drip and slid slowly At the corners of her mouth. Sometimes It Seems Powder sugar sprinkles Light snow in a flurry Blown by Amaunet's fluttering Eyelashes Sometimes It Seems I lick my hands, trying To Remember sweetness, Osiris and Re smile under Willow trees Sometimes It Seems Pansy petals dizzy themselves,  whirling in cold clear streams Sekhmet sweats, fury and guilt Deflowering dreams Sometimes It Seems Rye stalks bow before harvest Purified into drinks of diamonds Bastet prances and whispers, moans Kissing me Sometimes It Seems Allusions are all I have.

Attempt 1: Punished. Purified. Panther. Haunting. Re-embrace. Forgotten. Daffodils. Drinking. Terra cotta. Soaked. Tapioca. Attempt 2: Where are colorful sappy words…in a river of rotting flesh? Who is praying, lost, and uncertain – with circling greedy flies? Are sinful saints singing? We drop in the eve, on our knees, shoving fist full’s of moist earth into our ocular cavities. Such music, truth. Spoon fed scornful fantasies. Precious jewels, like rain drops, pure, collected in a lead can. Attempt 3: Amorous bodies dance with naked nymphs. Sultry kittens masked under moonlight beg for candy. Dish. Dish. Dish. Empty silver bowls, lonely under orange street lights. Masked little boys have frightened them away. I wash memories of their haunts. Drink some bleach to wash filthy innards. Follow darkness, until I don’t feel like it anymore. Blanket. Sleep. By Panganga and Forest

Fuck that god damn Tulip. Flamboyant colorful whore that it is. So fragile, curvy, and petite. Screw Tulips and their many faces of beauty. I'll trust in my heartiness. Bitter as it is. There was a time when people believed in my golden radiance. When my sunshine locks, gave a sense of home to those that have traveled so far. Still, today, for as long as I can remember, children of all persuasions greedily smile at me. Rub their snotty hot noses in the cluster of my gold dust pollen, like flightless huge lumbering bumblebees. As usual, they will pluck me from the earth to wear as crowns. I anoint immature queens. Give them the glow of mature beauty and regal riches. Soon I will become the baby though, in a morbid sort of game. "Mama had a baby and its head popped off!" Zing. There goes my head. Before I've had a chance to sprout my own babies and cast them to the wind. I'm sure their parents have put them up to it. Ruthless bastards. Still, there is a bit of love

Attempt 1: Uncle Sam rapes small children Stricken with obesity He's got a nefarious plan Wrote it down on a 10 Dollar Bill Buying Senators on Capitol Hill Who dance before the parents In flaccid pools of blood. Reflecting smiles Attempt 2: Inverted Convoluted. Hanky Danky child of Abraham Humorous pranks from God. Asking sacrifices Writes a thick cooking book with fancy spices ½ Cup of salt and a dash of sin (some lust, a lie, or a vain virgin) 2 Sticks of Absolution And television (mind pollution) A teaspoon of donkey dick piss Spit out from that prostitute's lips 6 pounds of meat! (cries dear Ruth) Attempt 3: Rotting apple cores left in the Garden Used, corrupted self-fertilized seeds Plant disfigured kings, lusting for sisters Who in turn lust for each other A twisted cycle of hateful love No Oedipus, no Freud These aren’t objective subjects Seed-core-sin, say it ten times fast And let your tongue drown in Forbidden fruit By Panganga and Forest

crimes. a rustling hustle. torn clothing and sweat. slickness like wine. a pounding. consumption. There the crowns of trees are aflame. Teeth catch, prod at supple flesh. disciples of tart fruit. crucified, martyred, juices. forgotten promises. dizzy dazzling waves. hushing heaves whispered into hurried ears. obsession that runs like water over rounded rocks. a suction of moment. pennies that are tossed to forgotten hopes. moss covered playgrounds for thrashings. nails driven deep into moist earth. cool rounded berries rubbing puffy lips. silky bones tumbling in muslin drapes. pools of acrylic paint spilling on perky breasts. drinking color. thick and warm. watermelons left in summer sun. blindness. imaginary fire flies. spinning. bodies thrown off steep cliffs. falling. gripping. flailing. fists of hair, burning hands. groans that wallow like steady rain. heat. unbearable. droplets of blood in the kitchen sink. pancake batter. flaccid rolling. muffled voices. cry on me. silence ar

Memory is water in a stainless steel bowl, we cannot carry it long without spilling. We slosh along, from place to place, from face to face, clumsily trying to refill it with fresh epiphanies and clear-cold declinations for our lives. We'll always find places to quench our thirst. We will wildly drink and spill until our deaths. We only hope our memory will trickle into another's bowl, mixing memories for some sort of advice on the things to come. * * * In Seldovia, mostly during the summer months, I developed a habit of frequenting the graveyard. The walk to the graveyard from my house, atop the hill with the Orthodox Church, is about a mile. The highly compact dirt and gravel road arches past Susan B. English School with its shabby baseball field. At the far end, a craggy rock face abruptly juts-out, ceasing the grassy field. Years ago someone climbed up its crumbling face and spray-painted a white bullseye. I've never seen anyone hit it yet, though plenty have claimed

Sitting, Sat Sartre.  Something Saturated  Sartre's Senses.  “Somebody's Shaking  Steps, Show Serrated Slopes!” Stupidity Surrounds Somber Squalls Squawking Sin.  Stabbing Sharp Swords Seeking Sinking Souls Smash Single Siblings “Surprise Snakes Suck Sizzling Sockets!” Sour Sacks Steeped Shallowly, Sell Stubborn Sisters “Sappy Shiny Stars Stifle Surrendering Salvation!” Sojourners Serve Supper's Supplication. Swerve Sultry Sobriety, Steal Silly Syringes! “Satan's Splendor Sands Spiteful Scythes!”  Smothering Said Something.  Sartre Squandered Seeing  So Simplicity Scored. So Sad.

Amadeus's tears tremble down his cheeks. He is going to die. Only on the verge of death do we realize the riches of experience. The trite treasure of knowledge. No one wins. Everyone suffers. * * * He'd come for a score. Looking for pussy. Tall and beautiful, with his tight white skin and dark eyes. I'd watched him come in, confident, witty, and crass. The only awkward note was his Austrian accent. Amadeus was a friend of a friend. An exchange student, bleeding for excitement. Joseph sat across from me. Steady cracks of beer and the tinkering of ice, heated up conversation about home and politics. He was short and brown. Sturdy from his years of stacking seines and hauling salmon. The past few years of swimming through law text books gave Joseph glasses and deep sophist understanding of hypocrisy. "It's time we moved on. This gets us nowhere." Joseph tips his 7-up and vodka to his lips. I drown some more beer. Hazy convictions. Complicated tho

"I’m the yellow duckling." Cruel beauty. Jealous at heart. Snow that smothers young saplings Its tragedy that makes great art. Cruel beauty. Jealous at heart. She grins, breathing gray ghosts Its tragedy that makes great art. Boundaries broken, become her host! She grins, breathing gray ghosts Words babble and trickle by the brook Boundaries broken, become her host! Tumbling nights, empty morning looks Words babble and trickle by the brook Father’s Fury. Mother’s mercy. Broken. Tumbling nights, empty morning looks Time here is gray and unspoken Father’s Fury. Mother’s mercy. Broken. Snow that smothers young saplings Time here is gray and unspoken "I’m the yellow duckling."

If you were a dandelion flower how would you wilt? like all the rest? Fragile and weak, lost in these words A confusing prison mistaken for freedom Quick sex of spring brings freedom To these shivering acres of flowers dribble their seed on concrete prison floors. Caught in the wind, they'll wilt And wallow, with hard worthless words Stuck in a structure so fragile What feeds this pitiful fragile Growth? A sad hope towards freedom Where no one rules but your words? Has no one told you? You're a flower. Beautiful but brief. You'll wilt Like the rest. A cycle, called prison! We'll live and die in this prison. Together, inseparable and fragile Til the end. Here's where souls wilt Into each other. Passing this freedom Onto the next bright yellow flower They'll scoff at the seeds of our words Begging and searching for the right words, They'll whore themselves out for a prison Wet with dew, sprouting a different flower. The soil's all the same. Give into fragi

Let me devour your lips It twill not hurt, they are but Ripe grapes Fills my mouth with sour sweet pleasure That I Hate to love Soft crimson wine spilt slowly from Your neck and down Down Down Over your breasts, caresses your Ribs and drips among your thighs Please Stay awhile dear, dear Hands of Infinite jest, which find no place Afar off to wonder. Fingertips etch Your curves. A south summer wind Warms the skin, rouses The harbor of your envy With bitter lust do I wish to Wrap the world into a ball of Complete and enchanting passions Teeth and tongue Catches your neck and slips across Your collarbone, flowing past hills Of peaches to find the gateway to Life Is it so strange? Do not deny those thoughts of Moist grass, wet, and glistening by the moon Unpeeled oranges in the summer sun Squeeze and the juice, the pulp sweet but Bitter, rolls in the sheets of your mouth, runs Like sweat over your skin, stabs crowning thorns of Lust That which you hate to love.

Its the boy holding An Orange to the sky Its the girl biting A green apple, Yellow Daisies in her hair That bring bearded Preachers hot tears A golden rubied chalice Overflowing with bloody Blasphemy

Photographs are leaves fallen from Trees of society They pile up and we rake them into albums and books Perhaps it be better to burn them. All those smiles into the flame. Here's one! Forty four humans compose the scene Forty three form a half circle One takes center stage All are men save two nineteen are indistinguishable stitches of woolen coats top hats and driver caps Five eagerly glance off, as if there's another camera Thirteen look into the lens Three among this group smile One man, a gaze unknown Straightens his tie Five muse toward center stage Four of them purse their lips thinking One among them, a boy of maybe ten, raises his hand under his chin making a curious open mouth smile The last human, center stage His Eyes were watching God He lay pretzeled around two By fours, with a broken oil Lantern by his side After he'd been shot and Mutilated his corpse was Set aflame, causing crests of charred flesh to form crusty ribbons across his body Welcome to Omaha, Nebr

“For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows.” Mark 13:8 March 27, 1964 - Good Friday - "the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake...And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose." Matthew 27:52 When the earth shook on the feast day of Christ's Resurrection, the rocky coast of the Kenai Peninsula and Prince William Sound were cast into the sea - dropping 3 to 6 feet. In Seldovia, Alaska, towards the southern tip of the Kenai Peninsula, notorious for its white washed boarded walk along the shore, most was drowned. Resident shops and homes were flooded. In time, people rebuilt, new homes erected, white washed boardwalks reestablished - memories of the rumbling faded into history as a quint suggestion of people's hardiness and the unfathomable c

I have pictures of this place. Stacks of pictures. All with a story of some sort. A woman walks down the sandy beach. She wears a long bright red wool jacket with a tan silky scarf. She's caught mid-gentle stride. In front of her lays the yawning blue Mendenhall Glacier. It glorifies itself with its own placid lake, making a mirror image of itself. Still. Somehow, Mendenhall manages to be humble, caught in the reflection of its own awe and breadth. The woman and the glacier. There is a history there. Deep Geological history meets my own shallowness. Two bicycles lay on either side of a muddied trail. There is a heavy blanket of moss and low lying bushes. In the background Mt. McGinnis and Mt. Bullard tower over and crowd in the candy blue of Mendenhall Glacier. Somewhere outside of the picture two friends speak of an up and coming wedding, the twists and turns of life - how it's always changing. A cool winterly breeze, stuck in summertime June, flaps alder and cotton wood leave

American people Don't you understand? Freedom is free! Stand here and watch As powerful kings bestowed by God shake hands and smile Cameras flash, smiles fade The buck is passed from Hand to hand Ideals of Christ are bought and sold. Brotherhood comes at a price American People Don't you understand? Freedom is free! Israel's screams echo In the halls history, collective suffering and a people's guilt becomes public policy Money changers sell humanity at the temples gates Democratic votes smell of Silver. A lot of thirty cast upon a hill of shame. American people Don't you understand? Freedom is free!

"My father is a shell. My father is dead." Droplets fall from her brown Skies. Eats ripe grapes that would have been wine. "Stories are all we have. Don't you understand?" "Stop saying that." Trembling. A lonely winter Alder, shaken by Northern winds Here in the land of endless sun Where heroes go to die for women And Water; God and glory. Forks clang against porcelain plates Cutting wedges of watermelon, its Black seeds float in pink sweet juices Nearby desert aches for the sowing Soon to be suffocated with parched tan Sand. Voices cry out 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' "Now. What do you have to tell me?" A bastard prophet, wanders, thirsty For truth. Removes his sandals, weeps Gnawing the earth, as the desert catches Ablaze. "I can't. Not here. Not now." "I already know." A Heaving like rock slides. Tumbling. Rolling. Crashing. Thrashing. Echoes. Silence. "I'm leaving you."

“This is the path that a Pennsylvanian man took to shoot and kill Magic. There was no justice. There was no reason.” All there are are rows and rows of houses. Like the streets of Selcuk. The wind is blowing a slight dust. The light is silvery and grainy. For some reason there is a kind of music in my head. The beginning lines are being said by a narrator. As if I am part of a movie. Or as if I am the Pennsylvanian man, who's shot Magic. I get to Magic's families house. I met this family before on a mountain. I was on it with Kent. It was an amusement mountain. Only. There weren't any rides. It was all about people hiking up to the top of the mountain and taking anything they could - bikes, moccasins, unicycles, inter tubes, one girl with a blown up dinosaur sitting on a castle with goggles and a mouth guard - Kent was there with me. At the base of the mountain, was a castle like structure that skirted the base of the mountain. There were showers and places for peopl

White boxes, three of them Now four. Back to three. Up to five and Down again. Frustration sets in. Face gets hot “Damn Rubik’s cube,” I say. The living room is full of family Full of death My uncle sits across from grandpa, their both Stout and have big lips just like mine Uncle Stan’s eyebrows are ruffled, muttering Humorously. Wooden puzzle pieces won’t fit Together for him. “Where’s my saw at there carpenter?” He says towards his cowboy boot, feather Earring wearing, dark skinned, thirty year old Indian looking son. We laugh, puzzles unsolved, pieces Jumbled on top of each other – Pushed aside. Cowboy Indian, shooting to be a genius plays Pegs, trying to jump down to one. “Got down to three – It says that's average.” He reads Indian lips trying to kiss the ceiling. We laugh, puzzles unsolved, pieces Jumbled on top of each other – Pushed aside. Grandpa’s puzzles not in his hands Stares off somewhere, wheezes through The cancer hole in his neck. His face wrinkled Looks hot, eyes

Its morbid. It's true. History books don't remember people – they remember figures and fallacies. The champions story. The champions limited perspective. The losers defeat. *** Karl carries his bronze metal with him wherever he goes – always in the right hand. To Karl, the medallion on its green and red necklace, is perfect. Is beautiful. Everyday Karl gets on the city bus hoping someone will ask him about it. No one ever does. Just yesterday, Karl tried to share his story to a dark skinned, sharply dressed man. But when Karl stood in front of him, motioning to his bronze metal, the man mumbled something about 'this being your seat. I'll move.' Karl sits up front. Alone. He stares out the window watching the blurry figures of Sitka Spruce sprint by. The bus driver is the only one that calls Karl by his name. The only one who actually speaks to him. “Morning Karl. Where's you're earphones today?” “Music is dead. Broken.” Karl points to his tape player. “Too

Big lip K boards the bus Bobbing to a new music player Smiles big at middle aged driver. She always happily greets, "Morning Karl." Every day. Every ride, Karl bears A bronze medallion on a green nylon Necklace, rubbing it with his calloused Thumb. Over and over. Obsessively. Every day. Every ride. Carefully Karl ambles to a seat upfront He stops. Stares and stares, blankly. Kindly black man shuffles and coughs "This your seat?" Blank, distant stare. Yellow dashed Lines wiz by. The bus rocks and creaks The smell of diesel and urine. Awkward Confrontation tastes of chalk. People Pretend, staring at the blur of the world Casting quick peripheral glances to Karl Now the kindly black man. Cough. Black man stands and moves Silently to the back of the bus Karl sits. Bobbing. Staring. People shift, yawn, chew nails Thinking of what Karl has won to Get that bronze metal

Representative Murkowski, Greetings from Juneau, Alaska! This is Forest Kvasnikoff. I am a young, lifetime, resident of Alaska, and I am writing you to ask for your continued support and championing of Senate Bill 1756. As you may know, in the month of April the University of Alaska Southeast in conjunction with the Hiroshima Peace Museum, the Marshallese government, The Leighty Foundation, Juneau People For Peace, Juneau World Affairs, Juneau Veterans For Peace, and a Seattle based educational program called Voices in Wartime, all worked together to sponsor and put on a Nuclear Awareness Conference. There were speakers throughout the United States including: Victoria Samson, a ballistic missile specialist; Andrew Himes, Voices in Wartime promoter; and Shegeko Sasamori, a survivor of the Hiroshima bombing and currently a California resident. In addition to these speakers, were guests and powerful speakers on behalf of the Marshallese people: Mayor James Matayoshi, Lijion Eknilang, and

A few weeks ago, while Juneau residents enjoyed the first rare glimpses of sunshine and warmth, a few speakers from the Marshall Islands and throughout the United States came to share survivor stories of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and nuclear testing in the Marshall Islands. They also detailed technical accounts of nuclear testing in the Marshall Islands and gave presentations that spoke to the human elements entailed in war and conflict. Few here in Juneau got to hear the testimonies or take in the highly detailed accounts that transpired. Out of the plethora of information and insights that could be taken from the Nuclear Awareness Conference, there is one that I think all Alaskans, indeed, all Americans, need to take heed - Senate Bill 1756. The bill is the first step in the reparations that still have not been given to the Marshallese people. More than 60 years passed after the U.S. government's 67 nuclear tests, which obliterated Marshallese home lands and displaced peop

We meddle in all things and seem to be disappointed at every turn. All objects touched with our hands are fleeting and fading. Beach rolled green glass from sorrowful bottles and fisherman buoys are smooth chapters with rough tales of sunny days and crushing blows with cobble stones. Standing on the shore we smell these salty sweet stories playfully swirling in summer winds. But all is memory now. Seasons and sights buried in pages already written. So we continue to write. Trying to forget. Furiously scribbling new images and tastes. Eating pages with tears and blood, consuming our lives. Desperately trying to forget. Move on. Be a better man or woman or what-have-you. Entries of you are obscure encyclopedic passages full of holes and incompletes – novels could have been written – that's what I whispered, skipping gray stones off a milky green glacier ocean. It will dreamily subside, flipping drunkenly to sandy floors, leaving Dungeness crab and white jittery shrimp philosophizing

Karl is crazy. Whatever that means Every morning - sun or drizzling rain or Sloppy snow or dazzling fluff and early Fog in mind and air - Karl rides with me. He doesn’t know my name. He waves at Me wildly and absently sometimes. I nod Awkwardly and afraid – silence and avoidance Is the culture of public transportation Where most hide behind their eyes Living or simply dying beneath Their muteness and sterile composure Karl flops his tongue out in contemplation And frustration Karl wears earphones. Everyday. Listening (I suspect) to the same Beige colored tape. Everyday. He bobs and rocks, hums and follows Passing trees and people, while our bus Clumsily stops and goes. Stops and Goes. Everyday. Karl’s tape player died this morning. Opening the battery enclosure he carefully Removed and replaced the batteries Flopping out his tongue and licking his Lips in quiet, intense, methodology Click-Click. Wait. Click-Click. No music. No Nothing. Silence. Karl examines the tape. Shakes It by his

This is not for me It simply won't do I've got words for you Ages have past with murders Slanders and deadbeats raping Women, now Peasants, now Gypsies, Now Christians, now Pagans, now Jews, Now Savages, now Niggers, now Chinks, Now Japs, now Poles, now Dagos, now Commies Now Dogans, now Huns, now Flips, now Wetbacks, Now Crackers, now Fags, now Dikes, now Liberals, Now Conservatives, now Kaffirs – Who? Dune Coons! Wogs! Rag Heads! Camel Jockeys! Womanizers! Muslims, I say! Muslims! Muslims! Muslims! Terrorists! The whole lot! Everyone of them a Plague, a disease, a stain, an abomination, an Extremist, a corruption, a killer, a sinner, a Sickness, a cancer, a blight, a felon, a con, an Infection – Marked as the Sons and Daughters of Cain Himself. Such is the cycle of hate A deep seated island of humor Laugh as I do. Please. Smirk at The silliness of humanity. Quite the irony. Quite the joke. Within this mist, dwelling on Stick figure women, their Breasts and their wallets, bodi

The doctor doesn't seem to understand. Says I'm off. Not quite right. Thin sheets are always talking to me. Voices of old French philosophers and Pompous Englishmen discussing some Colorless Male Burden. Killings and Sexings have been whispered Across candle light by thin wild haired Depressed Americans who rock menacingly Staring at the sky. Waiting for black birds Eyeballs and blood Baritone Black men tell me about blues Grassroot hallucinations speaking through Hazy browns and chaotic melodies "Jazz," she says, "Strange Fruit," She Says. Women talk of the domestic This fucking wallpaper That fucking husband Doctor just doesn't seem to understand. I refuse to enter a library until all these Voices wait their turn

Earth moist and sweet Damp and cool, giving Way to yearly spring rain Indecision. Rain, sleet, snow Rain Bury me in this moment of Life and frenzied growth Wrap me in sopping green Blankets of Earth Let me live in dreams Beneath the Earth Buried under soft moss

Big heavy snow flakes fall so silently and indifferent. Brown and black bears have hidden away, sleeping, dreaming of summer salmon and berries. Dirty mountains, once green, fatten at their apex with snow, beckoning gray dimness for months to come. Years ago, the Housing Authority built all the heathen savages real homes. Rectangles. Dark, shit brown, fake wood paneling. No Carpet. Cheap Ivory colored linoleum. In one of the long hallways – alright the only hallway – sits a 70s style furnace. It exploded with a warning "tick," and burst into a roaring oil sucking dragon in a matter of moments. It was an exchange. The American Father and his Son's told the Son's and Daughters of the Raven or the Kwatee or the Wendego to leave. Go. Walk this trail to your new home. Foundations for our homes are no longer simply the earth, but dead wood and rocks from lands not our own. We've traded homes. Welcome to your brand new shit brown rectangle. The side paneling was