Steps to the Spirit-Dance

carry a big stick & give it a name

dance wildly in places of mourning 

follow the voices in your head on drums

smoke out every place of business with a harsh cigar

when you come to a fork in the road choose neither & go straight for the knife

make a public ritual out of every mental breakdown 

steer clear of wintry temperaments

don't be too hard on those who choose to follow you

chalk up their bad tattoos to scar envy

call the sun your brother but don't put all your trust in him

enter every room cockfirst 

refuse all sugary offerings

drink your coffee black or not at all

drink your coffee in violent company

never expect a lamp to burn all night

prop up the corpse of Che Guevara

do that until he gets his strut back

then make him head priest of your forest tribe

come gather up the powdered bones of old Lumumba

run them through the crucible of patience

& watch him come forth to praise the killing hand 

now he's master of his own kitchen

the gods are his soul food

like any wise eater he feeds only on those who taste of death

Dreamkeeping

to give dreams their due

lest they come back as witches

a gang of wild boars

in a mad flight

leaping

across rooftops

as seen from below 

a seaport in the old style

looping roads

that meet themselves

& never any lack of moonlight

we call it Killer's Cove

out on the pier a lone cantina

long burnt-out but standing 

here tired killers turn contemplative

who have their mansions in the hills

but do their drinking down below

talking shop in tired voices

tired killers three drinks shy of Tula 

& every night quiet as expected death…

blowing smoke into our mezcals 

some god is blowing fog across the sea

sunset calms the twitching hand

shopkeeper's turned curandero 

peddles shrunken heads now with a smile

he knows what god has done the shrinking

but that knowledge costs you extra

the climate lays you out

& still I stiffen

bent back held up on a chain of iron vertebrae 

(wait, that one's no dream)

tough guy idling to the tune of tug boats

what is it—just a lapse of attention

the result: my cock betrays me

impregnated the town whore

was made king

& quickly learned

that kingship is to be avoided

like winter & like wine

Little Stabs at Shamanhood

One time I smashed a glass window with my bare hand. Smashed clean through & when I looked down at my hand cut open & the blood dripping, I laughed. I drank wine from a bottle & wrapped an old rag around the wound. My head became heavy, the floor below soft. I felt then like a bloodcovered man shuffling down a crowded corridor & the crowd making way. And my laughter was that of a mad god in the night. 

Or when I noticed a growth on my back, a lump of some kind. I didn't like the looks of it. I heated up my cigarette by taking a deep drag then shoved the glowing tip right in there, right into the lump. The skin sizzled & I laughed as it sizzled. Laughed at how well I had doctored myself. I felt then like a village tattoo artist working strange patterns into somebody's skin, when in comes a mother crying what have you done to my boy, he looks like a beast now, he's pale as a ghost & won't speak. And my laughter was that of a mad god in the night. 

Then there was the time I strung a bunch of paper up on a ceiling fan. Just hung the pieces from the blades & lit them. And once the fan got going & balls of fire came shooting through the room, I laughed. Laughed so hard my head became hot, thinking, I've made fire in the head. I felt then like a god who deals the people fire when what they're praying for is rain. And my laughter was that of a mad god in the night.