Cancion Mixteca from Paris,Texas

For The Lion On The Lamb Now Gone

Not Much Thought About A Visitor Now Deceased

They killed a mountain lion in Connecticut. I don't know why: because it didn't belong there, because it ate a pet, menaced a grandfather, held the town in it's metaphorical carnivorous jaws - or just because they could.

We have the technology now to find out how the mountain lion came to be in Connecticut, a place where mountain lions were pushed out by human encroachment ( if they were ever even there) a hundred years ago or more.

DNA evidence showed that the cat was from the Black Hills of South Dakota - a sacred place to the Plains Indians - two thousand miles distant.

That mountain lion walked two thousand miles only to be shot by strangers. What was it looking for? Elbow room? Maybe a place without fences or Wi-Fi?

Or was it a messenger from a holy place carrying a warning? What happens when the sacred meets the profane? What comes to pass when a spirit endures two thousand miles of Wal-Marts and Burger Kings?

 "Honey, there's a sacred being tipping over the trash cans on the patio. Better call Spirit Animal Control"

Come Here My Love - This Mortal Coil

Island of Lost Children

Another call for Calm and Unity

More dead children

More anguish,

Terror, loss

Another call for Calm and Unity

How do we recognize violence

Before it is unfurled

Madness?

Another call for Calm and Unity

How do we deliver this message

in every language

for all to hear and understand?

Another call for Calm and Unity

Insanely, this blond man proves that

One person can make all the difference

Or is it only true in the delivery of pain and evil?

Who will be his opposer?

Another call for Calm and Unity

We will mourn, rage, despair, spit in disgust, cry helplessly -

Maybe conclude that the whole damn thing has gone sour

And then we must stand up,

calmly, united,

and get to work

tipping the scales

back the other way

Dog Day

The haze settles

in

blurring the hills and

trees

a wet blanket

smothering

scattered thoughts,

slow movements,

sweat beads

ants on my skin

the curtain stirs

hardly a breath, slow

quiet now here without

children

a stuffy humid

mausoleum

with what seems suddenly like

all the time in the world

to think and to sweat

and none to live

Boris = Farewell