Native Spirit

What do the feathers of the fallen say?

On a branded monetized sanitized unoccupied day?

Due to the nature of entanglement, we’re best offering Thanks for this moment.

We’ve been every sort of bad and every sort of good, we’re the violence and we’re the hood.

The sacred and profane, they kinda get together, but in the light of day there’s an inclement “whether?”

So we run run away, yet there’s a luminescent tether…

That binds it all together from the banker stuffed with stuffing to the prisoner in her cell who is feasting on nothing.

Dickens spelled it out and boy we love to read it, or watch it in a movie but it seems like no one really see’d it.

Giving Thanks is well and good, it’s an ought-to and a should, but is that all we want to do?  Are there things humans once knew?  Have we killed wisdom with our order and made a prison with our border?

I got a reservation at a place for turkey dear, but there’s other reservations where there’s suffering and fear—Native Spirit waiting, hoping this will be the year.

General Custer had insurance from the folks at Money, Inc., and although though my ink is late and virtual, I can still detect a stink.

I’m not here to hate on settlers or on robber barons either, me thinks we’re both and neither and I’m woozy from the ether.

So I’ll close with more than thanks (although I thank you much for reading), I join you in the love that I hope we all hear breathing.

The change that’s here and now is as subtle as the wind, sometimes still as time when it stops for death or love or Mister, sometimes a whirling dervish—Ms. Sister Dorothy Twister.

I don’t want to wake alone, I’ve been there and it’s lonely, so I’ll drowse until we’re up and together make things homey.

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Tags: ancestors, spirituality