Rez dawg says what now?

Wind woman to give it to yous in the old English of the 21st century. The new new is older than these..

Tongues like magoes that tangos. I am a fan of things not making sense. That’s the sense. 

I am a fan propelling ocean planet air through my lips and nostril passageways. 

I am kwe, absorbing and releasing this earth like a living rocking tree swaying back and fourth in the starlight of time. 

I’m a seagull on a playground in a small town. 

First generation returning to the reservation serves no English in its taste. The return is to poetry. Water world where density is the dance of fiber tips. Plant palms. I submerge under rushing waters over and over and over.. until somehow I’m a salmon upstream... all i know is there are seeds calling. I hear them in the wind from the last seventh to the coming.. I hear them in the in between on my in between.. beans being beins. 

Old souls that elders spread word of in the 1990’s. Seeds dipped in the rainbow splatter of a bluebird tail in Nanabozho’s waterfall.

I guess callings are real. I have said for probably a decade now, “i just see myself as an old wombie laughing on the land surrounded by children telling them stories and making them laugh.“  I’m super wrinkly, maybe like my Great nokmes Adeline, but I’m spunky as ever and these babies seem more like old friends to me than freshwater turtles. 

I’m dreaming my dreams into motion. Crafting legs and arms, and lungs. I find my body

in the middle of a giant storm. A storm so wide its wings are the earth, its eye is a culture that has never believed in healing. 

These times are of times of healing songs. New songs, like dawn dawning its own new dawn, in the time of death, new beginnings, comets, astroids and coronialism.