It's the same?
I'll read a little piece from Shapeshift.
Is this better?
Bread dipped in gunpowder is to be
fed to the first graders in that moment when their hair is cut
and a ruler snapped, and there are whispers
metamorphose into a new chrysalis of thought.
A new wing emerging from the lips of these Indians,
who are no longer passing thoughts
in the paragraphs of an oil-soaked dictionary
but hooves carved into talons, hilltops
from which light is transformed into the laughter of crickets.
And I want to remain here where he doesn't drink my lips
or remove the cocoons my eyes have become.
Rattles erupt on the north horizon.
The harvester unties her shoelaces.
I see the sun, eclipse it with my outstretched palm,
and dig away my reddening skin.
"It wasn't like this before," I tell myself.
When I am thrown into the fluorescent room where
the sink hunches like an eagle claw,
it stops, pulls the wind to a breathing space
the size of a mouse's lung, and I
am drowning in the air around my feet again.
And antelope are gnawing into the walls of the city.
And those Indians are braiding yucca roots
into the skin of their scalps again.
And I want to fall beside them, count their fingers--
five hundred and five rows of spilled blood
marking the trail home.
The trail will not be followed again,
because there in the ears of the Indians
are echoes of the hissing belt and the laughter of thieves
measuring the length of the treaty
with the teeth of the jury that is seduced
by the glimmers of gold.
It's ash, all of it!
[APPLAUSE]
[LAUGHTER]