if you have a gift, give it

if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it -if you have a gift, give it - if you have a gift, give it

Monday, March 28, 2011

Below the light of the lamp

A boy was hiding out under the kitchen table.
Had on him a head of gavels.
Held two pencils, two pens,
smiled four brushstrokes when he winked at ya.
Drew on the underside that wooden table.

Lived in a stacker-house made of pallets and crates.
Knife, blue, spoon, and forklift.
Built the mouth a rivers tongue, pierced and plugged it.
Pulled chains with oxen.
Took a breath stroke from the front of his pickup
escaped through the potato peeler
on the back of a frog,
on the bugs in the night.
Caught a cold sleeping in a spiders web.

Spider said, “kill me for spring rain and your dying watering holes bucket wish, for growing carrots on the deep end of a diving board, as deep as the wind of a fishcatcher pulling strings with an ironing rod to brand secrets and sailor knots on the back of a child’s oyster dome.  So he will not forget me when my eight legs are gone. I love him much.“

Come thumb dandelions on the side road of a hitch hike.
Watching from fishburn up through your sunkiss,
down past your tiger eyes, glowing inside a concert hall.
Will call for the whiplash of binocular hands
who have dreams about visionary candlewicks
holding on for a skinny dip of wax, or the circulation of a bloodstem.
Catch that boy.

Catch him with his head in whip cream clouds squinting airplane propellers.
Reaching out for a bundle of fugitive balloons like a bouquet of doorbells.
There is a city inside each green helium tank,
inside each cross legged sitting machine,
all coiled up and in searchlight of spring.

When standing on the roost of a suspension bridge
remember, it’s a great time to suspend time.
Watch miracles within each collapsing wave
die down to rise back up like a oven mitt chuckle.
Say it in a slice of berry pie,
“Please bring me,
the font of a footprint.
The bark on the trunk of standing water.
The breast pocket of an empty cup.
The plum on the windmill
playing dodge ball in the cherry orchard.”

Under the kitchen of the table
below the light of the lamp
slept a boy with a head full of fist marks
and a heart full of
brilliant,
bright, surrendering,
brushstroke.


Saturday, March 19, 2011

The First Native American Pro Road Cyclist



"When I asked Cole House about the fact that he is the first Native American Pro Road Cyclist, his response was simple: “I had thought that, but I wasn’t sure. I know that I haven’t really heard of another pro cyclist in road racing.” Part of me thinks that he didn’t want to make a big deal about it, but he obvious recognizes the importance of him being Indigenous and a professional athlete. It begs the question, how can these humble quiet guys dig so damn deep?" - hands down the best paragraph i read today!


Dear Cole, 
Hope all is well down in Tuscan! Can't ride in Oneida during the winter or what? Who's gonna tend your fire? Today, I had the idea to google you for the first time. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. Anyways, great timing! Read a few articles and interviews about your career. I liked the one where that guy tracked you down, because he always imagined an indian runner on a bicycle, and then there you were. All that reading got me to thinking about riding down the hill in front of your house as fast as we could go. Then I remembered I'm about a half a football field behind. Oh, then there was Norbert Hill woods, I'm on a black magna and your on a red and white Trek. Your smiling and chuckling every turn and burm while I'm holding on for dear life. But, I don't care who you are. That's fun! 


Im starting a new small book project called The Gift Book. The idea came to me yesterday so I wanted to extrand on it and decided to go through a workbook called ShipIt by Seth Godin. The book is designed to ask questions so you can have a clear idea of your project, examine all the pitfalls and ladders, then direct the project into clear writing, so that, your project can come to life. The question that stood out the most: What does perfect look like? "the perfect gift book has to redefine gifting. It's a reference book and a reference point; meaning people can point to it because it is the best possible way to explain the idea that simply says, I went out of my way to inspire you" 


Out of all the people I know, and I met you the day I was born. So behind my mother, grandmother, your mother and my father, your arguably between the 5th or 6th person I was introduced to. And even though I'm still finding out more about  your story, and have met so many lessons in between. You're the person I can point to when I talk about going out of your way the farthest because of what you allow yourself to believe in. I don't know if you hear that enough from places outside of yourself, and it probably doesn't matter all that much because the voice you are listening to must encourage you often.  But I promised myself long ago, I would say it when I see it, because I do know that I am augmented when I make that connection. You live that. It must be the same thought that prods you while you ride and ascend distance. I can only imagine how audible the ideas are then, or what perfect looks like during those rides. And the feeling that follows a finish line. 


Yawanko for permitting your path and sharing with us. There is great medicine in you! 


          Your friend, 
                Lotni









Thursday, March 17, 2011

speak txt poetry

Wed, Mar 16 9:24 pm
Short grain rice never 
felt so, many 
like the world shaking and 
people go away


Wed, Mar 16 9:29 pm
There's a candle on my table
on my black table in a wine bar.
But but but there's a candle on all tables
And and and our center pieces
our aligned, a-lightened, spots of guidence
if if if oh only...
... and.

I know it will arrive.
When her smile glowshines like Tabletop Mountain
from afar a ways away.

At some point in every rest area
if your looking just right,
the table will hold the sun.

I know now, right near we've both
spent tall and and good years looking around out there.
And you know what
we did see that line that that beautiful line up.  

I think there's plenty more of that coming.
It's what my whole, my pieces, are telling me.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Poetree Man


When I ask my body what it wants
It tells me rest
So, I ask my heart if it agrees and its says, “no”
Heart needs words so I write words
Heart needs air so I hale words
Heart needs life so I light words like
A poet inside a credo
Casting prisms on the scratches of stained glass 
In the belly of a barn
Been cooped up and tied down
By my own limbs and limerick
Watching trees drink wine in a windstorm
I ask my body what it wants and it says, “to sway”
So, I ask my heart if it agrees
And it says, “no, stand strong”
Like a cordless phone on low battery
Calling friendship from a gray sky and balloon sale
When the signals lost
I can still hear your voice inside my halls
A direct line to bright iders
Laying stepping stones in echos
A Japanese garden tune
I don’t ask any more questions here
And I like to visit