Mad Poet Of The Apocalypse  

I am too tired to end this world

I have no strength to pull The Fifth World

Through the 'sipapu' at the edge of the magic river

I have burned the wooden rungs

Polished smooth by generations

Of soft leather footsteps

And my 'kiva' is empty

Save for me and Spider Grandmother

Like me

She is a tale of another tribe

Before casinos

Before we started killing our mother

Before dark work told us we could own the land

Before my tribe broke the hearts of

Ute, Navaho and Hopi

Taught them there was no magic

From cold lands far away runs my blood

Spider Grandmother from the sand painters

She whispers me

The voices of the Twin Warriors

They will not enter the kiva

Of a crazy old man who talks to spirits

They can't know their nature

The tragic perfection of simply being

It is so close I can almost touch it

Grandmother laughs at me when I try

She knows it is not meant for me

You will always be in the 'Fourth World', she says

Bound by the need to know

And forever haunted by the mysteries that can't be

What is my nature?

Why is it so perfectly perplexing

I almost believe her . . .

. . . it isn’t not knowing that is the problem . . .

She hangs from a crumbly log supporting

The kiva roof top

She has vanished when I hear

. . . the problem is knowing you don’t know . . .

I hear her giggling in the wind’s rustle above

And then

How is it, Son of Thor

You sit in darkness with a Navaho spirit

Waiting for the Blue Star Kachina of the Hopi

And the coming of the Fifth World?

I hear running steps and the laughter of boys outside

I long for Ragnarok and the days when ignorance was bliss

27 August, 2K7

ranchoZenrodeo