All the nameless men, the Jims and Joes and Davids, at the rail on this training ground. From our vantage point we can not see their eyes, the other girls and I. Light shines against us, but it flows around them leaving their faces blank. It is not for us to see them, not for us to choose.
I have posted a few of my Cherokee poems. I may post some short stories and excerpts later. the long man grandfather, the Long Man, came down from the hills to the green valleys of the Smokey Mountains, where grandmother…
The sun is in the east, backlighting the slender blond haired woman in ponytail cutoff jeans a lightweight jacket over her torso. One leg is bent at the knee, the other straight. She dangles a cigarette from her right hand….
You drop that little piece of something out the window of the car, covertly, as if to hide it from the driver or anyone who might be watching. As if I were an undercover bicycle cop and the fine for…
The Sky Path
They say that life may have come to the Earth on a meteor kicked up from the Martian plains by some asteroid gone astray, or it might be the byproduct of star factories, churning out chiral molecules in interstellar space,…
Writing Native America
As preparation for a presentation at the Eastern Oregon Word Roundup at Pendleton in late October, I am writing a series of essays about “Writing Native America” dealing with indigenousness, identity, and literary authenticity, the latter from the perspective of a publisher.
As those who have followed my earlier essays may know, my personal approach is strongly informed my the idea of “Creolism” as put forward by the Martinique philosopher, Edouard Glissant, as well as my own metis identity. I am hoping these articles will become a source of information for authors, especially those who might consider submitting works to our press. This first article consists of a slightly revised version on an essay I wrote several years ago, entitled “On Becoming Indigenous.”
The essay follows: