In The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand  Thirteen


Those who feast on the flesh of the living, a pose

Simplified by that heavy-glottal groaning: a rose

By any other name is still brains. Sure, one knows,

How one might hide herself, as that saying goes,

Away from the Hungry? After the Turning, foes

Look like our old friends, as the comics and shows

From the canon say. One’s mother joins in the rows

Of the undead prowling fields slowly. Blood glows

Under the moonlight on her glazed skin. It grows

Like some monsoon, never to scab. And suppose

We must revolt together tomorrow. Thus the woes

Of our easy land of settled graves have some repose

Over there, in that one. Corpses are just so-and-sos,

There, where our wars have no glories, no widows.

Cimúuxcimux Koníix Kaa Ke Yóx Híiwes Kugús Weecéene Ke Konkí Páhoxsna Ke Yóx Híinaq’it Kamálaham [Black From There And That Which Is Like This Dance With Which He Used Magic For Creation Everytime]

for David Lee Durham


two dollars south

for the yellow nights

sag suits and purple polyester


and chords that grind

aggression to the what waves

pimphanded youths


libated peoples

who grind their middles

to the funk front nothing


liberated peoples

and you can’t take it back

but a couple ladies


tried to give me some worse

seen the truth so its

bad but worse


-Miss Shepard’s, July 2006 

Ke Koná Pópciy’awn Hisemtuksyéeyene ka Hikáagawtaca Xayxay’x [Whither Killed The Sun and It Became Dawn White]


[in Nez Perce & English]


ke yóx Cik’etpemeyéeye

as a Nocturne


Koná hitéw’yecine ke yóx

There they lived, those


Híiwes cuukwenin’, kíi kaa;

Who’re known now;


Ke yóx híiwes cóosepnim

The ones who’re Joseph’s


Mamáy’ac, kaa Mamáy’ac

Children, and the little ones


Walamutkin, koná ke koná

From his Land, there where


Mamáy’ac… hitéw’yecine,

Kids… thrived,


Kawá hitqeglwetiyeks, kaa

And vanished, then, and


Wíinin, wíinin, wíinin, kaa

Tears, wailing, weeping, and


Wíinin, Mamay’ac. Kaa wáaqog,

Crying, children. So now,


Kíi kaa koná, poopciy’awn’ipáa-

Here and there, they were hellbent


cwisix ke yóx híiwes

on slaughtering he who is


Nimíipuu. Koná! Kíi! Iyeq’i-

Really human. There! Here! Dam-


ispe. Hikóoqana. Naxqaqá

nation. The fire came up. I used to think


Nagtóotam góoqá. Takláy hiwegníspe.

My father had it. Then he sang.



-Laramie, 2008. 




for the Wihinast



hinmatóowyalahtq’it gée taxc’ée

hot-lofted thunder ye can


gaapáx múx hahaha gicweey’s yóx wiy’éexc téhes kaa núkt

eat smoke cackling colds that say ice and flesh


q’og yóx kugúx ckeminikum hikeex

just as these two rivers do


gaqamkin’ikáayx xayxáyx hahaha ke yóx himíisne kaa qóoqox

towards grave pale howls of the wolf and raven


gúykin’ix sitaláhsaatwixno namá sawáyno pegtúu

else look up after me oh fat possessions


gúykin’ix hiwegnéepte gúykin’ix higlaagpsqícpatkayiksa ke yóx tágc

ere she were chanting else through the reach of the way that is fine


kaa gúykin’ix kíi galwit’áatmiy’ac hiwíine pégwisene kíi síi-síi-síi

and else this motherless child killed crying here squeels


yóx kugúx xayxáyx kaa lulc’éelulc’el weecéene

their ghost and birth dance


kaa galaptóxnim hipatiyáaq’pap géete

and blood squeezed its rounddancing so


géete sawníx  gitúxne géete sawníx xayxáyx gískit

so slowly soil such slowly white ways


ke yóx sáwwáaw’am ke yóx cicqígc háawpa sosóni

from deaf headwaters for the sweet swiftriver snake


gíin’ug wees xayxáyx háama wéet’u gíin wees weyéhnene kúg mac

I am a white man but I am not a snowy one


getke gíin’ug wees  ahkunkenekú núkt koná kíimet’u náma giléxni gasqápiin

because I am heavenly flesh hereafter oh many brothers


hiyk’íwce         kaa ke yóx tíy’et kúpnin kaa diskowkow           gepeguyéewikime kúus

sunshine warriors and their broken laughter and faded sun floated down streams


ke yóx nacógxne hiweecéeski q’og siyikowkown kaa sáw gíin’ug

that dance salmon so sunk and silent


wees ke gipí hiwc’éetetu koná máat’atx kuus kaa wahchumyus

I am what became upstream water and rainbow


sáw law sáw law sáw law sáw law kaa hiwáapciy’awna

I float away more gently murdered


q’og ke yóx netíitelwine ke yóx weyéhnene hitq’íiye

by the kin of the flakes he arose


law law law law kaa

with his wings gleaming and


hitíye’ye law law law law

he laughed with his wings gleaming


-Laramie, 21 June 2008

Proclamation Of The Boogeyman

Don’t trust me. My face has paint on it.

An invisible and savory oil the cats find.

Ignore me. Papyrus and bamboo pierce.

Corn or rye fattens. These are lambskins,

sepulcher harvest. Awns of wheat and

alfalfa lilt full, spin and blow glimmers

across the thrashes of my mischiefs.

The blades lace it into hay. And so once

there were horns that blew that were shorn

off herds, from those high, mountain goats.

Song rang from the head of beasts and

the menfolk of they who slaughter,

intestines strung along resin-soaked boards,

plunkable, thumpable, from the guts

of the cattle to the chattel’s strut asymptotic

to the rhythm of our trammeled bellows—

as bad as going. I swayed with the booties

strapped to a back, salts and slaves and

gold in the sand of an incandescent

desert creep, as hairy ghosts come to port,

a pirate, his terrible posse. Iron surrounds

the necks of the dusty and displacéd.

Finger-plucked gut rings, wed to the din

of itself. Ululating virgins and all the luck

of love warbles. I followed. Lonesome men.

Lonesome, lonesome men stayed.