Tuesday, 4 August 2009

one heart uncolored of young mystic offered like koan to the native colors and hearts i know through my one my only smoke spirit channeler


i was meditating on self when self walked away, without a goodbye or anything much to say, and left me for a loss. i was so gathered around self like moss. to the point of clandestine affirmation. to the high spiritual point of medieval rubrication. i painted myself in tones of red to highlight the holy in me. this all just before i walked away from me. like mid-crossing of self in spirit and holy ghost, or halfway through the blood of christ, one gets up in sacrilegious offtime, deadbeat or offbeat, genre defining allostasis, body declining allocation, christ hell damnation! that no one could see, only me looking at the backside of me, not even in awe cause it was my choice, to walk away on one plane and desert my individual race. so anyway to continue on. reprobation held back so we could see, some possibly different result outside a-z. narrow reaction leaves a fraction of knowing, like a stillheart child leaves no traction for seed sowing. the rowers keep rowing and rowing in circular motion dipped in the aqua, for equality guaranteed in sychronist tones, flavors of wood dripping with koans on loan from the parapsych department in the mental stash (what you call compartment in your wasp true words, so deft of meaning they suffer the lords whose spirits must gather on puritan spirit ground to expound the virtues of origin settlers, in blood contrast to Choncape and the Otto tribe that conferred upon him 'second chief', as a tree is sustained by a leaf he led: "one of a party to come among us", was said, "behold our strength, and report upon it to his people. He said nothing, which we heard, did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed." for doing secondary to being, he liberated thus to seeing the truth, i imagine, a point deep to fathom. imagine the rhythm. the sundries. the rally cry. the rally on! and then after dark when all fast asleep, he conjures the smoke spirits, they hover a few feet high over the coals, awake from their sleep. await his motion, from his ancestral ocean, he calls them to play, play in the woods, and dissipates the smoke, like a single exhaled toke. the pipe pullers know the way of the air, the Otto despair moved up from the earth so soft, the ground swept and coals once banked, the spirits of happy hunting grounds have him flanked these hours of silent escapade, like games in the dark, like caressing native women in shade, wild as horses, hair long like manes, they painted him for war, he remembers the stains, the power of four winds harnessed like clouds, no shackles no shrouds. just that deep deep koan knowing, of one and the other, touching her breast, pulling her covers, as she so gently allows, that wild girl of the plain, for she knows hes the one, her man on the plain. he brings his thoughts back, from red threat to black night, empty of sound and sentients and sight. the thought of the smoke, nurtured with knowing, spirit love and care cultivated keep growing. on his teeth is he blowing, and blowing and blowing. the prayers flowing and flowing, just growing!
this is what they know:

***Choncape, the Big Kansas, 0f the Otto, of a country on the Missouri, east and south of the boundary line dividing the Sauk and Foxes, and Ioway, from the Sioux. ' troublesome' to settlers during the war of 1812 with Great Britain, arid frequently 'harassed and interrupted' the trade between Missouri and New Mexico. then subject to poor treaties created by fear, they signed them in blood and shed not a single tear in the process. they licked wounds. counted losses. integrity remained, integrity of tribe and its causes....
Among the names of the eighteen signers to this treaty, so was told, we find Shunk-co-pee. This is our Choncape.
But the conditions of a treaty with distant and roving bands of Indians, who are as wild and untamed as their buffalo, were not relied upon as of sufficient strength out of which to erect barriers for the protection of the trade which the treaty of 1825 was mainly intended to secure. There was one other resort on which greater reliance was placed; and that was, to select and bring to Washington, and through our populous cities, some of the leading chiefs of those bands whose pacific dispositions it had become of such moment to secure.

Among those who were selected or this object, was Choncape. That Choncape had been in contact with the grizzly bear, whose claws he wore as an ornament around his neck, was less known to white man. while at Washington, he was peaceful in his looks, and orderly in his conduct. He said nothing, which we heard, that is worth recording, and did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed.


This was all that was known, and yet known was more from the pen of the girl who was the daughter of the american revolution, whose descendant was Richard Stockton, signator of the Declaration of Independence. and through her the words came to know the man deeper, Jerray Nickel, he was a keeper. she let the word move her, the way he moved spirit, from smoke to the base of the little boys sneakers and up through his bag to shadow his face, he cried a half hour, sos suddenly displaced! like his people long before him, he was running.

Running from religious sucking of feathers, yet bound to the new land with renewed concentration, like camps fueled with gaslamps and securing the fears of indian cares not of the white man, arrows sent at him in symphonic waves, to undermine all of the 'jesus!' and 'saves!'. the shadow so large they ran for their own, up against native replete with strength of old koans, intuitive sense so sharp as a knife, they take preachers scalp and take preachers wife. put her in leather so soft cause they care, hides of most sacred and honored animals they blessed before they cessed, lives divided from spirits, often to liberate the sick or lonely one for whom it was only a matter or time, so not too late to take early, pray and show gratitude, in some longforgotten crooked strait). the sacred ash placed on the ritual fire, the women and children witness so much then retire, the elders draw near the fire, draw close and wash the paint of war, into a bowl of water now colored, and make of us the other, using all the gifts, hide to hoof to bone and wish. and the preachers wife she smile, decorated as a native woman and passed her trial, given a good husband and hunter, who will provide for her in harsh winter, no bibles except to burn, no lessons except from natural breath of experiential to learn, none but her new tribe to mourn, and every dawn filled with love to yearn for her lovers return come vespers falling sun, burning red and day ready always done, nothing bare or broken, no words of hate ever spoken, only words of truth, and prayers for papoose, when she bears fruit for him and her and the tribe. dancing wild to diatribe. ritual lunge and ritual dive, she is a part of each and every live, no longer alone shut away in the white mans home, no longer burdened by words so far removed, rather loved and cherished and painted in lavendar to celebrate the coming of the rain dancers calendar, . and fear came to visit and was given expired yogurt to acid wash him out of what was once my space before self slipped silently south.... you touched the lip the edge of my mouth, you drew across each line and sensed in me the divine... i was slowly becoming your girl in a moment, damn you, you lover above her, below my taste and middle finger to class from this rebellious urban country lass with the fine ass you go to tap. whoops, kat made a kitten cry and felled you like the oak tree you are into my embracive lap. a trap! i set for you, to challenge you like you knew i knew--you loved. the competitive T in your limbic system, turn the concertgoers over and frisk them, they like it, black and white and in between, latin fight and loco steam. you laugh at them, when genders noticed, women frisk men and it comes into focus. a sexual gesture of touch at this show, no careless meandering of hands and toes. the bold men on staff with the muscles to prove, roll batons down ladies backs so supple and smooth. the crowd allures and gathers like fabric, to test this shady new urban rubric. amen. apropos of nothing & all.

***(bold text derived from online sourcing of Wikipedia - Ottoe tribe keyword). slightly altered for sake of measuring and connecting to fiction surrounding it. if i footnote wrong, please tell me how to do it right, and all apologies).
Katya
Katya