My uncle is a small man. 
In Navajo, we call him, "shidá'í,"
          my mother's brother.
He doesn't know English,
          but his name in the white way is Tom Jim. 
          He lives about a mile or so 
          down the road from our house.
One morning he sat in the kitchen, 
drinking coffee.
           I just came over, he said, 
           The store is where I'm going to.
He tells me about how my mother seems to be gone 
every time he comes over.
           Maybe she sees me coming 
           then runs and jumps in her car 
           and speeds away! 
           he says smiling.
We both laugh - just to think of my mother 
jumping in her car and speeding.
           I pour him more coffee 
and he spoons in sugar and cream 
until it looks almost like a chocolate shake. 
Then he sees the coffee can.

          Oh, that's that coffee with the man in a dress, 
          like a church man. 
          Ah-h, that's the one that does it for me. 
          Very good coffee.
I sit down again and he tells me,
          Some coffee has no kick. 
          But this one is the one. 
          It does it good for me.
I pour us both a cup 
and while we wait for my mother, 
his eyes crinkle with the smile and he says,
            Yes, ah yes. This is the very one 
            (putting in more sugar and cream).
So I usually buy Hills Brothers Coffee. 
Once or sometimes twice a day, 
I drink a hot coffee and
             it sure does it for me.
Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered
percussion in the morning--are the morning.
Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little
longer, a little slower, a little easy.  Call to me--
I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock
right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb
chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna.
How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed
Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur.
My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena,
ecstatic devourer.

O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped
the amber—fast honey—from their openness--
Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked
smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa
coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire
to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet-
dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond--
to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue--
come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips,
I am—strummed-song and succubus.

They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book--
the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel.
AlleluiasAve Maríasmadre míasay yay yays,
Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray.

Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera.
Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle:
What do I see? Hips:
Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone.
Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread,
wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be:
Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel.
Bone basin bone throne bone lamp.
Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery--
slick rosary bead--Déme la gracia of a decade
in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me
to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit,
laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God,
I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth
for pear upon apple upon fig.

More than all that are your hips.
They are a city. They are Kingdom--
Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire--
thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth.
Beloved, your hips are the war.

At night your legs, love, are boulevards
leading me beggared and hungry to your candy
house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late
and the tables have been cleared,
in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake.

O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve,
a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are
kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning
comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon,
let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me
circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming
for your dark matter.

Along las calles de tus muslos I wander--
follow the parade of pulse like a drum line--
descend into your Plaza del Toros--
hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros.
Your arched hips--ay, mi torera.
Down the long corridor, your wet walls
lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed.
I am the animal born to rush your rich red
muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan,
a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner
thigh—here I must enter you--mi pobre
Manolete—press and part you like a wound--
make the crowd pounding in the grandstand
of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.


    These will more often than not be Native Writers but there will also be non native writers included here because I am reading some. 


    November 2013