[SPEAKING IN MOJAVE]
It was a very good night.
I'm very happy to be here.
I thank Allison.
I mean, this book is a great thing.
But she does so many great things
I think that are beyond even the book.
She's been a mentor to a lot of us,
and she's helped pave the way and open a lot of doors for us.
So I thank her very much.
Thank you to the Poetry Center for having us here.
It's great to see such a big crowd.
And in the line of language work,
Susan Penfield's here from UA and she's been an awesome help
to my tribe, and my people, so it's good to be in good company
here.
I'm going to read two poems to you this evening.
A lot of what I write about is experiences that I've had.
So one of the main issues that I struggle with and wrestle with,
and it comes through my writing is meth, meth use,
meth addiction.
It's hit, I think most areas hard, but especially,
our reservations and in my family, especially.
So this poem is called "Black magic brother"
"My brother's shadow flutters from his shoulders,
a magician's cape.
My personal charlatan glittering in wooful dust
and loaded with gimmicks and gaffs.
A train of dirty cabooses, of once beautiful girls,
follows my magus man like a chewed tail
helping him perform his tricks.
He calls them his beloveds, his Sim Sala bimbos,
shoves them into pipes packed hot hard as cannons and wham
bam alakazam, whirls them to smoke.
Sometimes he vanishes their teeth then
points his broken wand up into the starry sky,
says, voila, there they are.
And the girls giggle, revealing neon gums and purple throats.
My brother, my mago.
The consummate professional, he is dependable,
performs daily, nightly, in the living room, a forever matinee,
and always late shaman show.
Come one, come all, behold the spectacle
of the Prince of prestidigitators.
Pulling wild animals from a hole in his crotch.
You thought I'd say hat, but you don't
know my black magic brother.
And those animals love him like the first animals loved
God when he gave them names.
My brother, our perpetual encore.
He riddles my father with red silk scarves
before sawing him in half with a steak knife.
Now we have two fathers, one who weeps any time he hears
the word .
Presto The other who drags his feet down the hall at night.
Neither has the stomach for steak anymore.
My mother, too, is gone somewhere
in one of the pockets of my brother's bluest tuxedo.
The audience is we.
We have the stubs to prove it, and we have been here
for years in Velvet chairs the color
of wounds waiting for something to fall, maybe the curtain,
maybe the crucifix on the wall, or maybe the pretty white doves
my brother made disappear.
Now we see them, now we don't.
Will fall from his sleeves like angels,
right before our very eyes."