Ink Blots

So, this poem was a real fun one to write. I wrote it for a friend who did something so stinking brave, that when I was told- my heart leaped out of my chest and started running. I wanted to capture that bravery, because the first draft of this poem had a really different ending until she changed her mind. And, I kind of think that's how real life kind of is...so yeah.... I am so proud of my friend for doing this. It's not easy to bear one's soul on the page...haha, so yeah...this is dedicated to you Panchonio. :)

I am the hand dense against this page, that's what you make me my friend.
There I dry, condensed on a page, between blue lines is where I lie.
Dragged, I am dragged by you, thin across the page.
I create the pressure on my pen to form the words that speak for me on the page.
All they while the exclaim everything I cannot.

Because you, you are effortless.
Crisp and smooth as a desert sky.
Simple and calm, everything I am not. 

Yet, I can not take and remold this, refold this, create creases in the page to justify what I am feeling now.
Wrong is what I am. Wrong as red pen on a freshly written paper, graded at the digression of a professor, who has absolutely no idea who I am.

Judgment so contingent on an image that I have spread thin.

But, you are not my judge.
You are more like my witness.
You stand to testify and remind me of all that I am.
Reminding me of all the things that make living worthwhile.
You help me dream of far off places...
Yet remind me, that I'm doing alright, where I am.

But the truth is, you are just my friend.
And matter how hard I press pen into paper this page will not stand as law.
Cupids fruitless arrows drawn, fall short of you.
No, I'll never be the exception who is tan and swathed in blonde hair.
And no, you'll never look at me the way you did in August,
Under the starry blanketed sky, as you leaned over me and I wondered why...
I felt this way about you.
And I will always remember the night when we glowed under
the summer skies dancing and screaming with laughter.

It was easy for time to fly by.

Then fall swept in, leeched the green away, and I was left with red and brown.
You went to a far off, but warmer place.
As I clung to words that you had written between the lines.
And I probably licked about a hundred stamps to send you mine.

But it wasn't enough.
Your very presence in ink.
And with every line with words unspoken
 I thought of...
Every push, every shove, every wink gone unnoticed.

It seemed that you were just my
 friend.

Never, had I heard a word so binding.

It slayed me.

It almost caused me to curl up in a ball.

But, I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't be the one to wink or giggle at every one of your silly little riddles.Oh,- I can't possibly be one to caress your arm like you're a trophy...because you're not.

You are the ink blot on my page.
You are flawed.
But you have folded this poem down the middle and the sides.
Gave it wings to fly.

So... I'll let those words leap from my chest.
And heaven forbid you'll let them fall short.
Because you are the ink blot on my page.
And never has a stain seeped so deep.
Never have I breathed so deep,
as when I'm with you.

You, you, are the inkblot on my page.
Permanent and un-erasable. 
Flawed so fine, in between the lines.

Not A Costume

An Indian Cry.
A simple savage sound, you expect to hear that from my open mouth.
I get it, you're practically an expert.
Thick turquoise bracelets stacked up along your arm.
Clunky rings gaudy on each finger.
You have a dream catcher on your rear view mirror.
Does your shirt read "Native Pride?"
All in the name of fashion I suppose.
Yeah, I love your aztec prints, and those moccasins are rocking.
All your fringe and feathers make me feel sublime.
Thank you for supporting a nation.

Yeah, I get it, it's your personal expression.
But I'll have you know...to me this is more than an accessory.
I am more than the beads and feathers that you have defined me by.
I am more than the leather, the rugs, and the peyote you suspect I have.
I am more than the print you wear upon your shirt sleeves.

I am part of a people.

And never in my life have I gripped a flask and pressed it to my salty lips and prayed to die.
I am more than an addiction.
And no, this is not a Halloween costume you can buy.

Anxious hands can mimic and pry to make money off of an image that has become derided by lies, but I will not stand for it.
The marginalization of my people.
This is not to be ignored.
Weeks ago not far from here, a young boy raised  his hand.
Pressed an innocent palm towards the sky,
he asked "if the Indians are still alive."

When we talk about Indians it's so easy to generalize, but we have tribes and nations.
We have come far from where we've been.
This historic grief for my people I carry is more than just for another's sin.
It's not something that can be forgotten.
It's been written into the faces of my mother and grandmother,
I am a living history, a legacy, that cannot be forgotten.
Beyond the boarding schools and the mantra of "kill the Indian and save the man."
This is my clan, this is what I stand for. All my people.
All of them hungry for something to be claimed as equal.
Through the loss of identity.
Passing trends, fads, head dresses and fascination of rich culture.
This is my identity. 

I wear my skin with pride.
So, no, I am not a costume you can buy.

Places

It shouldn’t be noticeable but it is, right as Utah ends and Idaho begins, the road is exponentially smoother. The skies get clearer and I can feel that I’ve entered another state. There’s a lot I don’t like about Idaho, I don’t know why. It’s not much different from Utah if you really think about it. They look relatively the same, in that they have a similar geological appearance. But for some reason Idaho’s mountains are less majestic. To me they appear hungry, the sharp defined peaks, like the spine of a starving animal. The animal itself is still beautiful, yet somehow, sad. It reminds me of an animal in a zoo, one that just stopped caring.

            I should have a connection to Idaho like I do to Arizona. Idaho is greener and somehow more alive but Arizona is…magical. Magical without trying, maybe that’s why I can’t stand Idaho, because it tries too hard. It tries too hard to be like Utah. It’s the sad unsuccessful cousin that everyone tolerates. And Utah is the judgmental overachiever who just wants to seem cool to everyone else. And Arizona is just effortless, hot, dry, interesting.

The beauty between the two should be incomparable but  in my honest opinion Arizona wins. Because it's effortless. I'm not talking about hot sprawling city Arizona but the sand baked tumble weed portion of it that everyone thinks is ugly. The Arizona that if you look at the sand long enough you see flecks of brown, black, and gold. Sure it's a working progress and the shattered glass beer bottles are unsightly but it's history. Not saying Idaho and Utah don't have their fair share of litter...but it's different. I feel like since I've stepped in Idaho and Utah there is no possible way that I haven't stepped in a place that hasn't been stepped on before. That whole idea is just fascinating to me. To be even in a new inch that no one else has ever been in. Claiming that one spot for just a moment as your own. I know, I'm a dork and I love that sort of stuff.

And those crazy windstorms that fill your ears and teeth and nose with sand grit...but if you hit the wind just right and mouth words the wind takes it right off your lips and you can hear the whisper of the wind taking your words...it's...haha, I love it. 

I love Arizona.

I enjoy Idaho.

I live in Utah. 

They're all pretty neat I suppose, but at the end of the day I don't know where I'd really want to rest my head.