A Rattle of Individual Voices and Tires

By Kim Shuck

Incantations over formica at
Carefully chosen hours we define the old
Route 66 the
World serpent shattered now like the spine of the
Carpathians, the vertebrae of the Andes we are
Black top and burned coffee, we are pie 24 hours a day we
Chart sunrises and arrange stones we run
Fingertips over petroglyphs, over countertop scratches, our prayer
Songs call cactus flowers out of the lizard jeweled night the breath of the
Lungless, that other beat of a heart that doesn’t keep the
Blood warm and the faint outline of an old-time eye that
Stares from an unclenched fist.


Copyright © Kim Shuck. All rights reserved.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kim Shuck is a writer, editor and visual artist of Tsalagi and Polish ancestry. She holds an MFA in Fine Arts from San Francisco State University. Her first solo book of poetry Smuggling Cherokee won the 2005 Diane Decorah award from the Native Writer’s Circle of the Americas and was published by Greenfield Review Press in 2006. Her first book of prose, Rabbit Stories, came out in February of 2013. 

Her second solo book of poetry, Clouds Running In, forthcoming in  2014, includes drawings by the brilliant Cumbrian artist, Marcer Campbell. 

Visit Kim at www.kimshuck.com

Bear, Coyote, Raven and Some Sweet, Sweet Berries: A Chumash Story Told By Alan Salazar

Long, long ago when the animals were people, Bear did not like to share the black berries that grew down by the creek. He would chase off anyone that tried to eat even just one of those sweet, sweet berries.

Now one summer morning coyote went down to the creek to get a drink of water. He drank some of the cold, cold water and noticed that the berry bushes were loaded with thousands of sweet, sweet berries.  He looked to his left, then his right and he did not see Bear. Coyote knew that Bear would chase off anyone that tried to eat even just one of those sweet, sweet berries.

Not seeing bear any where, Coyote thought it would be really, really cool to get a few of those sweet, sweet berries. Coyote slowly crawled over to the berry bushes. Just as he was about to take a berry,  Bear who was on the other side of the berry bushes stood-up on his big old hind legs. He was 7 feet tall and weighed 500 pounds, super duper heavyweight size. He roared so loud that it scared Coyote so much that he jumped 5 feet straight up. He hit the ground running faster that he had ever run before.  Bear thought that was really, really funny and he laughed as Coyote ran away. Then he went back to eating those sweet, sweet berries.

Coyote ran all the way to the top of a near by hill. He was out of breath, so he laid down under a big old oak tree to rest for awhile. As he was resting  and catching his breath, he heard caw, caw, it was Coyote’s friend Raven.

Raven asked Coyote why he was breathing so hard. Coyote told him how Bear had chased him away from the berries down by the creek. And that all he wanted was just a few of those sweet, sweet berries.

Raven said, “Ya dude, Bear hoards all the sweet, sweet berries for himself. I tried to get just a few of those sweet, sweet berries and he swatted at me with his big old paw. That’s not nice at all dude. He should share them with everyone, dude. You know Coyote, we should teach that dude a lesson.

(It was Raven who started the dude thing)

Coyote agreed and the two friends began to plan their revenge. As they planned how to trick Bear and hopefully teach him a lesson, they could see him down by the creek. They could see him eating and eating those sweet, sweet berries all day.  Coyote napped several times resting up for his big adventure later that day.  Coyotes nap a lot.

Bear would only stop eating those sweet, sweet berries to get a drink of that cold, cold water from the creek.  Raven and Coyote  had watched Bear eat not a hundred berries, but thousands of those sweet, sweet berries.  His big old belly was so big that it almost touched the ground as he walked to the creek.

Just before the sun was about to set Coyote trotted down to the creek.  Raven flew down, circling high above Bear and Coyote.  When Coyote got down to the creek he boldly walked up to the berry bushes.  He quickly grabbed a few of those sweet, sweet berries, popped them in his mouth, swallowed them, then howled as loud as he could.  It scared Bear for a second, but just a second.

Then Bear charged through the berry bushes and started chasing Coyote around the bushes. Coyote ran as fast as he could. They must of went around the berry bushes ten times.  Bear was breathing very heavily because he had ate so many of  those sweet, sweet berries.  But, he was really, really close to Coyote, so close Coyote could smell Bear’s berry, berry breath. Bear thought he was going teach Coyote a lesson. But, just as Bear swatted at Coyote with his big old paw Coyote jumped straight up.  Raven flew down and grabbed Coyote, lifting him up even higher. As Bear fell flat on his big old belly, Raven dropped Coyote.  He landed right on Bear’s back. He wrapped his front paws around Bear’s big old neck and his back paws around Bear’s big old belly. Well, half way around that big old belly.

Bear took off running and bucking trying to get Coyote off his back. Coyote held on with all his might.  Bear was pawing and clawing at Coyote.  He was bucking and pawing, bucking and clawing at Coyote. Raven flew down and pecked Bear on his big old head. Bear  could not get Coyote off his back.  After a few seconds, eight to be exact, Bear fell down flat on his big old face and big old belly.  He was exhausted and was gasping for air.

Coyote jumped off of Bear,  dusted himself off and trotted over to the berry bushes. Raven flew down to the berry bushes.  They each ate a few of those sweet, sweet, sweet berries. Coyote put a few berries in front of Bear, he did not want Bear to be too mad at him.

As Raven and Coyote left they both said to bear,” We just wanted a few berries, there are more than enough for all of us, if we all just share,,,,DUDE!”
   
The next morning Coyote and Raven went down to the creek. Bear saw them and stood up on his big old hind legs. Coyote and Raven held their breath and were kind of scared.Then Bear said, “I thought about what you said yesterday. And you are right, there are enough berries for all of us, if we share.”

From that day on Bear shared those sweet, sweet berries with all of the animals. He turned out to be a good dude.
   
Now Coyote did not realize that day what he had done. He did not know that he created the very first rodeo event, yes rodeo event— Bear back riding.


Copyright © Alan Salazar. All rights reserved. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 
Alan Salazar writes, "I have worked in several different areas in my life. I am a Native American traditional storyteller, a traditional paddler of Chumash tomols (plank canoes), a Native American consultant/monitor and a juvenile institution officer. I have also, been a journeyman plaster since I was a young man and have been around construction most of my life. My family has traced our family ancestry to the Chumash village of Ta’apu, now known as Simi Valley and the Tataviam village of Pi’ing near Castaic, Ca.  We are Ventureno Chumash and Tataviam. My ancestors were brought into the San Fernando Mission starting in 1803. And I continue to actively protect my ancestors village sites and tribal territories.

I have been actively involved with several Native American groups. I am a founding member of the Kern County Native American Heritage Preservation Council and the  Chumash Maritime Association.  I am a member of the California Indian Advisory Council for the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History.  I have been a community  advisor with the Ventura County Indian Education Consortium for over 15 years. And I am currently a member of the Environmental Review Board for the city of Malibu. 

As a member of the Chumash Maritime Association I have helped build the first working traditional Chumash plank canoe in modern times and have paddled in this plank canoe for over 15 years.  I have also been involved with teaching youths about Native American cultures. I have been involved with protecting Native American cultural sites for 20 years.  I have been a consultant/monitor on sites in Ventura, LA, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and Kern counties.  I am one of the few consultant/monitors that has taken college classes in archaeology and has worked as a field archaeologist, to help me better understand the field. There are several other groups I have also been involved with as an adult.
      
I have self published the first ever Chumash coloring book featuring important Chumash animals and the Chumash language.  I am currently working on self publishing a small book of traditional and modern Chumash stories.  Chumash stories that I have told hundreds of times to thousands of children at schools in southern California. I will release that book in late 2014. I also, make Chumash seaweed rattles and Chumash clapper sticks (musical instrument) to help teach students Chumash songs.
     
A storyteller in the Chumash culture is a teacher. My stories educate and entertain. I share my joy, love and respect of my culture when I tell my stories.  As a young boy I enjoyed listening to my Father tell us about being a Marine in WWII in the Pacific islands.  And having milk and cookies with Mrs. Taylor,  an older widow lady who lived three doors down from us in Hanford, California. Mrs. Taylor would tell me stories about Hanford in the early 1900’s.  I was only 5 or 6 years old, but I loved learning from these stories.  So, sharing my stories is something I learned from many elders in my life, and not all of them Chumash.  Being a traditional Chumash paddler of Chumash plank canoes and helping to bring back our Chumash maritime culture is also, very important to me.  But, storytelling is my way of connecting to people of all ages.  It is extremely important to me.

I have also, worked as a Juvenile Institution Officer for approximately 20 years at Juvenile Facilities in Santa Barbara and Bakersfield, Ca. At the Juvenile centers, besides supervising young people, I dealt with people in difficult situations on a daily basis.  Counseling at risk youth was a large part of my job. Motivating and inspiring troubled youth is something I have strived to do most of my adult life.

It is not easy being a proud California Native American. Misinformation about my tribes is still out there. And we have many obstacles still to overcome.  But, I was raised to be proud of my Native American heritage. I take pride in being a positive role model and a respected Elder.  And I believe by sharing my knowledge about my Chumash/Tataviam cultures, I am saving these rich Native cultures."

Educational Programs For All Ages

BEYOND BUCKSKIN: Project 562: Changing The Way We See Native America


Cathedral of Leaves

By Linda Boyden

Grandmothers sit
around a small table;
above their silvered hair
oak boughs weave
a cathedral of leaves,
for shade and secrecy.
Grandmothers sip tea,
the clink of their cups
pepper their thin voices
as they spin Forever Stories
to soothe or amuse
or guide a troubled child.
Grandmothers quilt
a patchwork of words;
stitch the bliss of a first kiss
onto the death of a language;
hem a baby’s first smile
on the memory of a massacre.
Grandmothers spark stories,
their pale voices bloom
under the cathedral of leaves,
where remembering
becomes a sacred thing.


Copyright © Linda Boyden. All rights reserved.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 
Linda Boyden, author, storyteller, illustrator and poet


"The Blue Roses" from Low Books 2002, winner New Voices Award, Paterson Prize and Wordcraft Circle's Book of the Year, 2003

"Powwow's Coming" the University of New Mexico Press, 2007.

"Powwow's Coming" is included on Reading Is Fundamental's 2011 Multicultural Book List!  http://www.rif.org/us/2011-multicultural-booklist.htm?mid=5459710




"Giveaways, An ABC Book of Loanwords from the Americas", written and illustrated by Linda Boyden (University of New Mexico Press), 2010

"Giveaways", winner of three Finalist awards from the 2011 International Book Awards, two Finalist Awards from the 2011New Mexico Book Awards and included in 2012 California Collections form the CA. Reading Association. 
  
Linda's 4th picture book, "Boy and Poi Poi Puppy" from Progressive Rising Phoenix Press. (2013). 

Saboulet

By Michelle Pichon

I remember you
like the only shooting star
I ever saw
streaming across the eternal Texas sky
vibrant and magical
Your fingers long and rough
Camel Turkish blend
unfiltered
burning at the tips
chilled Budweiser
in a can
sweet on your breath
That’s how I see you
Legs like a blue heron
crossed at the knee
sitting in the swollen air
the backyard that once was
nothing but bayou
under the shade of our
family tree
telling me about
birds and baseball
You ask me
if I still play the piano
and I wish I did
because that would give me
something to say
I could learn some
big band jazz
and play for you
like the Duke
But I quit playing the piano
like everything else
I don’t like it anymore
I say
eyes on the thirsty ground
my voice like
caterpillars chewing on leaves
 And now
I imagine you’d say
The piano is like baseball
Shah, you got to saboulet
or don’t do it at all

* saboulet is a Louisiana Creole baseball term meaning hit the ball as hard as possible

Copyright © Michelle Pichon. All rights reserved.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR  
Michelle Pichon is a Louisiana Creole with roots in Slidell and Isle Brevelle, Louisiana. Teaching English at Northwestern State University is her bread and butter but poetry is her chocolate cake and Sauvignon Blanc at the end of the day. She has previously been published in Country Roads, Xavier Review, and Louisiana English Journal. She is co-founder of Down River Art Gang (DRAG) where she and her friends put on killer multi-cultural, multi-genre art shows and other events. 


You can follow Michelle on Tumblr at http://mpichon.tumblr.com

Ghost Dance

By Chip Livingston


I think I’m going crazy when I see my reflection in the camera’s lens.  I’m surrounded by the dead.  Jimi, Marilyn, Joan — face covered in cold cream, hand holding wire hanger high above her head.  The Halloween Parade has paused for television crews in front of The Revolver on Duvall Street in New Orleans.  I duck inside for a drink, take the elevator to the thirteenth floor. 
I walk inside the club without ID.  Tonight I don’t need it.  Tonight I’m invisible.  I pass witches, goblins, boys dressed like ghouls.  Once we were two of them.  Once we both joined the annual masquerade.  But tonight is different.  Tonight I don a plain white sheet with ink.  Circles traced around holes cut out to see through.  Another hole through which I drink, from which I breathe.
I wasn’t coming out tonight.  Didn’t plan or purchase a costume.  Wouldn’t wear one hanging in your closet.  What led me to the linens then, to quickly cut a cotton sheet into a kid’s uniform?  What drove me to this?
Beneath this sheet, your medicine bag hangs around my neck, the tanned leather pouch you made me promise never to open.  This is the first time I’ve worn it.  But no one can see it.  No one can see me.
I finish my drink, scotch neat, with a gulp, sing the invisible song you taught me, set the glass on the black wood rail, and, still singing, step onto the dance floor.
Beneath this sheet, I imitate you dancing.  My feet, awkward at first, soon find your rhythm, and my legs bounce powwow style in the steps we both learned as kids.  The steps that never left you.  I dip and turn between, around the fancy dancers in their sequin shawls and feather boas.  I shake my head like you did when your hair was long, the way you flipped it, black and shining, to the heavy beat of house music.  The music hasn’t changed much in case you’re wondering.  I dance in your footsteps; sing the invisible song; close my eyes.
When I open my eyes, I swear I see Carlo.  Impossible right, but he’s stuffed inside that Nancy Reagan red dress and he’s waving at me, sipping his cocktail and smiling.  He’s talking to Randy, who’s sticking out his tongue that way he always did whenever he caught someone staring at him.  I start to walk over but I bump in to Joan.
She’s glaring at me.  Or it may just be the eyebrows, slanted back with pencil to make it look like she’s glaring at me.  She reaches past me and grabs Marilyn by her skinny wrist and pulls her away, but Carlo and Randy are gone.  Where they stood are faces I don’t recognize.  Faces dancing.  Masks I realize.  Faces behind masks.
The DJ bobs furiously with pursed lips, headphones disguised as fiendish, furry paws, in the booth above the floor.  He introduces a new melody into the same harping beat, and I remember to dance.  I remember you dancing.  My fingers slide across your sweaty chest, and I find your necklace.  The sheet clings to my body in places.  The new song sounds just like the last song but I’m suddenly crowded by strangers.  I can no longer lift my legs as high as I want to, so I sway in place, shuffle with the mortals on the floor.
Behind me someone grabs me, accidentally perhaps, but I turn, violently, jealously.  There are too many people in this equation.  Twos become one again and again, and ones become twos.  All around me real numbers add up to future possibilities.  Imaginary numbers.  It’s why we’re here dancing. 
A cowboy nods his hat in my direction.  But he can’t be nodding at us.  We’re invisible.  I think maybe he is a real ghost; he’s peering intently into the holes cut out for my eyes.  He looks like Randolph Scott, blond and dusty, so I look around for Cary Grant as Jimi lifts the guitar from his lips and wails.  Randolph Scott is coming this way and I turn my back and dance.
I want you back, Elan.  I want you back dancing beside me.  I start chanting this over and over to myself.  I want you back.  I want you back. 
You taught me the power of words.  I believed you.  I can even smell you now.  Sandalwood oil and sweat.  I turn and expect to see you. 
Not you behind me. 
Not you beside me.
Not you in front of me.
Not you anywhere around me. 
I make my way to the bar, but the bar is too crowded.  The barman’s face grimaces over hands holding folded dollars as he tries to keep the glasses filled. The air is thick with smoke.  It’s hard to breathe.  I make my way to the door, notice the cowboy trailing me.  In the elevator, I go down alone.
Into the rain on Duvall Street, we walk out together.  One set of footprints splashes our muddy way home, then, turning, I realize we are not going home, but passing more pagan tricksters decked out as holiday spirits. 
            The bells in the clock tower tell me it is midnight.  Squeaking from its hinges, the door to morning slowly opens and it’s All Saints Day, the Day of the Dead, and I am walking toward Boot Hill, to where you are buried.
We’re alone in the cemetery, and the wind lifts the rain in a mist rising up from the wet earth that is claiming me.  I remove my sheet in front of the cement memorial that holds your body up above the boggy ground.  I remove my shoes.  I strip off everything except your leather pouch around my neck, and I dance for you.  My legs are free and I whirl and sing.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved to dance.  I want you back dancing.  I want you dancing now. 
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved to dance.  I want you back dancing.  I want you dancing now. 
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved to dance.  I want you back dancing.  I want you dancing now.
I’m dancing for you now, because you loved to dance.  I want you back dancing.  I want you dancing now.

Ghost Dance, was first published in Boulder Planet  and is reprinted from "Museum of False Starts" by Chip Livingston (Copyright 2010). Reprinted by permission of Gival Press.



Chip Livingston is the mixed-blood Creek author of two collections of poetry, CROW-BLUE, CROW-BLACK and MUSEUM OF FALSE STARTS, and a collection of short stories, NAMING CEREMONY, Lethe Press 2014. Chip has received fiction awards from Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas, Wordcraft Circle of Writers and Storytellers, and the AABB Foundation. Chip grew up on the Florida-Alabama border and now lives in Colorado, where he teaches writing online, and is a faculty mentor in the low-rez MFA program at Institute of American Indian Arts in New Mexico. 

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