Some things on this earth are unspeakable: Genealogy of the broken — A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre, Or the smell of coffee and no one … - Joy Harjo

Many people assume that all Indian people lived a long time ago in a certain in a certain way and wore certain clothes, so if you don't look like that now, you're not really Indian people; but all cultures change. In our case, the change has certainly been abrupt and shocking, and we have had to a struggle to maintain the heritage within that terrible upheaval...Maybe all artists now must struggle to understand the connections between the world of heritage and the present world. Those worlds certainly do converge and maybe poems are points of convergence or, in some sense, paintings of that convergence. Maybe the artist has always worked to find those connections, but I think the struggle is especially important in these difficult times when the illusion of separation among peoples has become so clear...*For me the illusion is that we're separate. That's the illusion.

"Breath is our entrance into story making — it is a promise. It is a constant ritual that we all share, and it is essential in poetry."

Do not feed the monsters.
Some are wandering thought forms, looking for a place to set up house.
Some are sent to you deliberately. They come from arrows of gossip, jealousy or envy — and inadvertently from thoughtlessness.
They feed on your attention, and feast on your fear.