Eagle Spirit, are you strong enough?

I don’t see any painted sky. Why does it have to be so blue all the time. I look each way for something new; my compass has no news of golden treasure, rains of enlightenment. There are things I have to be doing. This map doesn’t let up, I tell you. I know that it will hurt when I break away from some dotted line. But I can’t see you cry anymore. I can’t hear the disappointment anymore. I can’t hold your weight anymore, or watch the lines crease your face anymore. It’s the same old, same old. And where’s my news? Who’s reporting for me. It’s not timely. Books crowd my head. The christmas lights hang low, reminding me, taunting me of times, safe, and alone in my bed of green. I’ve lined these pictures and they grow old too. When will things stop growing old? When fire meets skin, and I blow away into the wind; blowin’ in the wind. Watch from the watchtower, won’t you? I’m not sure what I expected college to be like. Independence, new friends, variety, possibility. But there’s not much new but an old new town and dirt roads that now pave into palms and cacti. The bunny mountain isn’t so big no more, camelback’s not that small. I’m still waiting for power in crystals, and wolves with their mother moon. Luna, la lune. Native American legends in adobe mountains and sedona’s vortexes heal, you know. But I don’t know. I can’t feel. I want to feel. Young and used, I’d sit in the back of an old red firebird, my head resting against another window that trapped me within circumstance, and I’d watch those painted skies change each way. A compass that finally moved somewhere other than North. I wanted to melt with it all, like the sky with the heat, know the map and the treasure. ‘Cause fuck, it gets tired always searching. I wanted to just be, or know that there was something that followed after me too. Skies of maroon and gold, and magenta too. It was beautiful. It was heaven. It was homemade circumstance. And the past didn’t end, but danced in ritual’s hands of fire and sand. Dust storm take me away; wash my skin, cloud this view, make mud out of my sense of direction. Am I strong enough yet, blowin’ in the wind, burning in your eyes, El Dorado’s dusty Hidalgo? Look up towards the sky, and turn, side step, work your magic shaman king.

College

Due to the haze of what seemed like an ending, and yet, never ending last summer at "home," and a new wave of debilitating emotions over my move to college in Arizona, I haven't been able to post much of my writing lately. 

However. 

I did get back from a roadtrip at the beginning of August with some friends to Socal, and I have a lot of pictures and various writings/journals that I will post soon!

So don't leave. 

Strength in Broken Shells

Great danger, they let their guard down.

There was tank fire. There was artillery. There were airstrikes.
It was hard to navigate—tank fire, artillery, airstrikes.

How could this happen? Who is this man, the self-image of an African “king of kings?”
The latest news read:
Not a single sentence makes sense!

A loudspeaker blared, “we will remain,” in revolutionary refrain.
With a weary smile, the men were terrified.
Rebel fighters kneeled on the ground, belts of ammunition draped over their chests, and, prostrated in prayer, they recited: “God is greater than what I fear.”

Not by choice, the youth had begun to lose hope.
Human—an old man with a wrinkled, sagging face, muttered baffled and embarrassed.
“He is just a man. This will come to an end, finally.”

To an end, flat and open, shouting at the top of his lungs: “How long can we stay like this?”

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/03/magazine/mag-03Libya-t.html?pagewanted=1&sq=1943&st=nyt&scp=6

http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/03/30/lynsey-addario-its-what-i-do/?ref=world

So this was a found poem I wrote for a new york times contest. Thought I’d share.