What a wild dilemma, how to make it to the stars on a highway slick with fear - Joy Harjo

There are always flowers,
Love cries, or blood.

Someone is always leaving
By exile, death, or heartbreak.

The heart is a fist.
It pockets prayer or holds rage.

I marked myself once with a knife. I was disappearing into the adolescent sea of rage and destruction. The mark of pain assured me of my own reality. The cut could speak. It had a voice that cried out when I could not make a sound in my defense. I never made such a mark again. Instead I chose to slash art onto canvas, pencil marks onto paper, and when I could no longer carry the burden of history, I found other openings. I found stories. (p91)

You cannot legislate music to lockstep nor can you legislate
the spirit of the music to stop at political boundaries-

-Or poetry, or art, or anything that is of value or matters in
this world, and the next worlds.

This is about getting to know each other