Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.
I come from a long line of revolutionaries.
I am a member of the Muskogee people. I’m a poet, a musician, a dreamer of sorts, a questioner. Like everyone else, I’m looking for answers of some sort or the other.
There may be as much nobility in being last as in being first, because the two positions are equally necessary in the world, the one to complement the other.
Humans are vulnerable and rely on the kindnesses of the earth and the sun; we exist together in a sacred field of meaning.
It took me 14 years to write ‘Crazy Brave’ because I kept changing the form and I also kept running away from the story. I said I don’t really want to write about myself. But it’s about writing about memory.
Hatred is a feeling which leads to the extinction of values.
We live at a time when man believes himself fabulously capable of creation, but he does not know what to create.
I hear from my Inuit and Yupik relatives up north that everything has changed. It’s so hot; there is not enough winter. Animals are confused. Ice is melting.
We distinguish the excellent man from the common man by saying that the former is the one who makes great demands on himself, and the latter who makes no demands on himself.