We grow up cursing, when
we don’t know another way,
many of us so far from the land
God gave our people, disenfranchised,

lost, discombobulated by years
of concrete, asphalt, sirens and
the worst invention by man to
date:

Helicopters.

***

The native, the first people, the
“pagan” was one with the land
and sea, never cursed—for why
curse, when all of life is a part
of you and what you do, no
separation, gratitude so natural
because the cycle is endless hope,
story and adventure, a tie between
you and all the generations?

But I walk L.A. today, walk over
and by the trash, the litter, under
the thunder of metal fueled by
the earth we try to master, not
honor.

But I walk L.A. today, the big city,
civilization with indeed some decent
plumbing, I guess; harnessed power
giving us light when we want,
electronics on which I write tonight.

But as I walk, they curse at me—
little boys becoming men by the
train station, calling me a “pussy”
because I called the police.

Me saying “thanks,” because pussy
is good.  Our moms, sisters, and
women good and essential, our
body parts essential—especially glorious
and wonderful the reproductive
organs.

***

There are no curse words in Native
American language.