http://slow.writerscafe.org/cbighorse The original writings of author Chris Bighorse en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776021667 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 November 5, 2012                The day started out dreary and dark.  My layover in Tillamook was much needed and I am deeply indebted to Riley for his hospitality because, as I lay recovering, thoughts of returnin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/1170886/ November 2, 2012                I started out early.  Even before the sun began to lighten the darkness of the clouds I was breaking down camp.  It had rained all night and my gear was damp despite being under.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/1168020/ November 1, 2012                I started out late.  It wasn’t until 3 o’clock in the afternoon that I crossed the Washington/Oregon state line in the middle of the Astoria Bridge that spanned the Colum.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/1138726/ I find it next to my heart;a crumpled piece of paper.It twitches in the wind as I pass bybut never blows away.I pick it up one dayand it's like I pull a plugunderwater.First a small pop, then gravityand I see boundless empty spacewhere the paper sat.  I wantto read the words on the pagebut some.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/742270/ I am in love with everygirl I have ever met. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/426229/ I have these little pieces of paperwith little scribbles of truth on themthat I throw away because I keepmy trash and my treasure in the same pocket. And it's not because I'm absent-minded;it's because sometimes I really can't tell the difference, I've found 5 dollars a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/421931/ I can't tell you how many songsI write when I touch your cheek,or about the violin orchestration I hear when I run my fingers through your hair,or how endlessly I try to transcribe your beauty onto the fretboard of my guitar,because there are too many promiseshidden beneath the texture.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/389776/ To all my old friendswhom I may never see again: If you hear of my deathgo outside and breathe deeply.I will do the same for you. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/377852/ For Gabi http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/371696/ I had wanted to bookmarkan occasion where pocketsof air bubble, trapped betweenice and flowing water.How mother said "Gods reside in the most impossible places."She instructs me to lookwith the corner of my eye,tilt my head toward the sun,squint if I have to.And .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/292954/ A Discourse of Time http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/250944/ What I see and writeare not the same things.I simply stare at a blank pagehoping to see embossed wordsI can trace into a work of art.Instead, I manufacture epic leaning-towerscenes from the tiny pebbles of my life;unstable truths about who I am. And when a piece finally c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/244156/ I often wonder what my father is thinking. Navajo is his native tongueso he stumbles on his english,slowing to think about . . . I often wonder what I am thinking. I forget which meaning I assign certain wordsand begin to question my belief in them,thinki.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/221171/ It's the kind of morningthat starts late, when the cloudsembrace the land and the only differencebetween day and night is thickness --of sounds, of light, of mind. Outside is a dream, a hazy replica of real life;inside is bitter with solid lines and definition.I work to forget t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/209967/ How extravagent, pretendingmy life with words. I'm often confused which I've lived; mydreams, my waking, or my work?I catch myself speaking of me asI observe a stranger, a begger, with intense disgust and greater curiosity.How I snap my eyes away when I notice me.Do I know I steal my.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208741/ I've never seenAngry Fire,the flames that licklife out of flesh. I've never seenthe skeleton of a house,where only a fireplace stands.I've only seenPrayer Fire,the one that roarsa gentle tune withthe drummingand singing Diné.I've only seenfirefly sparksdance wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208726/ When I write a poemevery word I use hasbeen used before. Next week a friend will ask,"What makes a poem yours?" I will answer by givingthem this piece of paper. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208716/ I've gone blindstaring at the moon,and I hate her for it."There is no ground here.You don't need your eyes."She tells me, pulling me with the ocean."Let go." I cry,fighting away phantom handsknowing only by touchthat I've entered the water.She tells me.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208703/ When my uncle leaves the houseI always see a bloated column ofsmoke in the distance. He returns smelling of fire,squeezing a handful of changehaving exchanged lucidity forcracked beer bottles he drainsinto his throat. Every morning I watch him urgethe rainclouds .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208694/ I believe I've given youmore yesterdays than tomorrows, have swept my ambitionsunder the rug with dustbunny dreams and pocketchange. It's not your fault. Keep in mind, you foundmy footprints near the edgeof your desire. That was too close. Also, bear in mind, I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208673/ I have just enough vocabulary to attachlong words to short meanings,syntaxto tangle the tips of tongues.The rest I've thrown into a junkyardin my head and I notice, from timeto time, someone sneaking off withideas and rhymes tucked underneaththeir arms. I spy shacks of crumpledpaper,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208670/ I was able to pour meaning onpaper, thick like batter.Just another washedup poet from the rezmaking a living off alanguage not his own.What would grandma think?I couldn't tell you.I don't speak navajo.I don't capitalizenavajo because Dinéis what we are. We u.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208668/ I taste youlike I taste gun metalafter a bloody nose,like pennies under the tongue.You're subtle, passionate,precise, like sipping poison,bitter like nibbling sandpaper. I sample your thoughtson popsicle sticks,savor your emotionslike fine wine,flavor my soulwith your .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208666/ For Jacky http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208663/ Sometimes a photographwill remind me ofa cluster of clouds. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cbighorse/208657/