I borrowed the watch specifically
to tell me how long I had been up here but now I've
forgotten when I started.
So, you might know when I started.
I've got 9:20, is that right.
So, when did I start.
About 8:30.
OK.
I'll read maybe three more and then I'll--
right now, OK.
This is my Arizona poem.
Last year I did a couple of weeks
in Northern Arizona and New Mexico.
And while I was up there, I really had a good time.
Mostly because, I was really impressed with the girls
in these Indian schools.
Although they were very young.
And so, there was one school in particular,
a school called Fort Wingate which is out of Gallup.
And I really had a good time.
It's hard to explain.
Because part of it was like, there was this one girl
and this is a girl that the poem is written about.
That I was really, very impressed with.
She was very articulate.
She was very dark and beautiful and she wore
turquoise and silver jewelry.
And I really got to thinking that I would--
she went to a BIA school and if you're
familiar with BIA schools they're really terrible.
And I was thinking that she should have--
that I'd like to take her out of there
and send her to a good school.
Buy her some nice clothes and all this kind of stuff.
But then I got to examining my motives.
[LAUGHTER]
And they are just terrible.
[LAUGHTER]
So, I wrote this poem to her and it's called "Arizona Highways."
[LAUGHTER]
I see her 17, a lady dark, turquoise on her wrists.
The land astounded by a sweeping rain, becomes her skin.
Clouds begin to mend my broken eyes.
I see her singing by a broken shack.
I saw black, it must be done.
I hum along, acts sober, tell her
I could love her if she dressed better.
If her father got a job and beat her more.
Eulynda, there's a name I could live with.
I could thrash away the nuns, tell them I
adopt this girl, dark 17, silver on her fingers.
In the name of the Father, Son, and may the Holy Ghost.
Why not?
Mormons do less with less.
Didn't her ancestors live in cliffs.
No plumbing, just a lot of love and corn.
Me, that's corn, pollen in her hair.
East, south, west, north, now I see my role, religious.
The Indian politician made her laugh.
Her silver jingled in her throat.
Those songs, her fingers busy on his sleeve.
Fathers forgive me.
She knows me and her Tchindii dream.
Always a little pale.
Too much bourbon on my nose.
My shoes too clean.
Belly soft as hers.
I'll move on.
My schedule says Many Farms tomorrow.
Then on to Window Rock and finally home.
That weather nude, distant as the cloud I came in on.