The night is my shadow,

and the shadow, my light.

The coyotes and I roam these canyons and squares,

our long, ragged coats sweep the streets

as we wander.

We are the Cherokee Curse

upon the American Mall,

pursuing the Trail with magic

and soft padded paw.

The coyotes stop to breathe on a store window,

and my warm tongue on the cold glass

writes the revolutionary word:

"Communion."

* 

The dream-life of our nation

 has become a psychotic non-dance,

 driven by remote-control brutality,

written, produced, and directed by naive demons.

Menacing lights sweep

the smoggy basin of this 20th century,

searching for a zeitgeist gone AWOL,

(and the networks promise us EXCLUSIVE coverage.)

Faithlessness fills the night air,

  and Babylon reloads.

*

                                   And the prophet said, "They are armed...

                                   Where there was earth, they have sown erosion.

                                   Where there was truth, they have sown advertising.

                                   Where there was love, they have sown the Super Bowl.

                                   Where there was justice, they have sown opinion polls.

                                   Where there was dance, they have sown tranquilizers.

                                   Where there was community, they have sown prime real estate.

                                                                                          ... but we are dangerous."

                                   We are stakes through the eye of fashion,

                                                                                                and our bride is squalor.

                                   We are safety net fallout,

                                                                        and regret nothing.

                                   We are silent extras,

                                                                  on the Imperial set.

                                   We are the shamans of the alleyways -

                                                    forming sacred signs in the bus shelter,

                                                    healing highways jammed with screaming cans of meat,

                                                    repeating our sacred prayer, beneath the broken bridges:

                                                                                                        "Blessed Are These."

*

                                    Our words are made subject to the National Security laws,

                                                                                       for we are traitors.

                                                                                       Yes, we are traitors...

                                                                                               to their pale dream,

                                                                                              The Dream of The Betrayers.

                                    They have forgotten God, and God has surely forgotten us.

                                                                               (Jesus tells me, this I know.)

***

In 1987, I had never written a poem. In the late Spring of that year, I returned home from my adventuring, and upon setting foot in the farmyard, began writing. Pretty much compulsively.

This is one of the poems from that first batch, a number of which got published - such as "Harvested" - but some of which I just kept to myself, like this one. I'm putting some of them up at my Posterous site:

http://quinntheeskimo.posterous.com/

This poem incorporates phrases and images from my friend Scottie O, who was then - and is now - a great writer. Thus, the address, "to/from/for Scottie." We were writing, swapping comments on the twisted world Reagan was leading us into, and it gave birth to this poem.

Anyhoo... how do Scottie? Hope you're keeping well, and writing up a storm!