Gasping glochid

Slice me open like a saguaro fruit

Let me bleed, raw red with delight and comfort

Take your carob thumbs and rub the skin soaked

My needles fall out easily for you

Unlike the others, I’ve made sure to stab in all the right places

So they can let me be, to bask in the sun

I was not ripe until

You knew the clouds would be here soon

I was not ripe until

You knew the rain would wash away my spirit

I was not ripe until

You saw the brightness in my stamen

 

Thank you for letting me bask as long as I wanted

Then you can enjoy the crimson of my fruit

♥Delegation- Oh honey♥

Angsty Asdzáá Zine.

Among it all…I finished. A collection of poetry, collages, pictures of my family and prose, all from the lens of an angsty Indigenous womxn. Will be available soon at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore and Wasted Ink Zine DistroAAcoverFINALJPEG

♥ A Tribe Called Red- Sisters♥

The mesa behind Grandma Cowboy’s house

 

Redthedog
Grandma Cowboy’s trusty dog, Red.

It leaves and returns

The day is hot and windy on top of this Mesa

Juniper trees pop up, sparse like hastiin faces

whiskers on chin and cheek

30 miles north I can see Navajo Mountain, to my right

Past the rusty pink canyons and untarred roads

Equal distance to my left is Black Mesa

A Mesa seen as skin to Diné

But paper greener than Matcha on a cold day

to all the Mr. Peabody’s in the Midwest

I hear cowbells in the distance

with old sheep moving it’s puffy chins

to make its presence known

Then grandma gets out of her truck

Alan Jackson stops playing on the radio

Her freshly permed Kinłachiini hair, Canadian tuxedo

and Shape up sketchers are made for this rez

She waltzes to a boarded shed

Dives her chocolate colored fingers

into lemon colored straw for their feast

I sit on top of the mesa

from here I can tell Shimásání

is pleased because the sheep

did not get lost in the canyons and have returned

The sheep take a moment to see the hay

and almost rumba like make their way

They were made for this rez

 

sheepatthebottomofthecanyon
Grandma’s sheep at the bottom of the canyon

♥The Chromatics- Runnin up that hill♥

An ode to zine making

bluehorsesPNG

An ode to zine making

Makeshift manifestos and meticulous missions

Hope for a promising praxis

No money? No problem

DIY-do it yourself

 

My zine, my thing

 

Unedited language squeeze out soliloquies

Uncensored, raw dialect

Crunch and slice

Of paper ripping,

letters sinking onto an

Island of paste

 

Dialect of trauma hide

under my fingernails

Ready to be cleansed

By the soap I hold

And this water given to me

 

Wispy cuts of processed tree

transfer one sheet to another

fingers hold a stick of glue

Compositions collide

images drip disorder

colloquial concepts confuse sleeping minds

 

Indigenous liberation all in caps

Feminism red as strawberries

Spill on the page like burnt ketchup

Create ocean waves in espresso pupils

Sing like ponderosa’s

On a windy decadent night

 

I create

Tape, scissors, hand

Highlighters hiccup pyranine

Stickers vibrate youth

Salt sprinkled on watercolor paper

Bleed aubergine badlands

 

My finger gently

smooths a page of rage

made with love

not childless

nor unborn

 

My narrative, my nutrient

the paper is my water

I set afloat my words

Among my kind

A homemade delight,

how divine

♥The Julie Ruin-Just my kind♥