I pretend to be the landlord of these city streets,
the cement glistening and popping underneath,
a drifting equine looking to collect Native antiques
yet I am selling Native deceit
I cast myself on the polluted bubblegum and tar roadway,
clutching my bag of tádídíín to look for stars but
the city lights drown them out, drown them all
for nothing is but a dirty brown glow
Meddlesome Raven flies up, perches on the lamppost,
winks at me, assesses me, laying down in the middle of empty streets
and I cry up to him: “Shi-buddy! Let me know if you see the stampede!
I’ve much confessing to do of my misdeeds!”
And he shrinks away and I sink further into tar,
and I can feel reservation highways rolling out of my arteries,
spreading out all over the west coast which I traversed, traversed, traversed
to try and find my band, my kin, my tribe
But I feel like a broken horse
like a broke-in, vagabond horse
and the buzz from stoplights and streetlights hum
colonized, colonized, colonized

And I’ve wandered the city streets on broken,
splintered hooves, into the beds of a thousand white men,
looking for the perfect tourniquet, to forget who I was,
if only I could
And Raven retracts, malingerer in his perch,
bounces, squawks at me and in the street I feel the hoof beat stampede
and I nicker, speak: “I can feel my limbs segregating themselves
into whiteness, into brownness, into a ghost mare with no home and
if you see the Holy People, Raven, tell them I seek them.”
I roll over onto my side, place my ear to asphalt,
and hear the stampede beasts frothing, coming down the city streets,
closer to me, throwing up debris, here on the open road
no need for identity and I open my eyes to a distressed Raven,
the impending stampede screaming Phony, Phony, Phony
And I let my hooves bleed, despite Raven’s cawing warnings,
yet there’s no more reason to be discreet,
for my longing, seeking, collecting is like flesh torn,
like a broke-her-in horse.