I love Riverside California, that region that is better known as the I.E.Fact is, that like every other place, there is Spirit here and I feel a need to tune into it. The spirit of the Desert is a stubborn old Aztec woman whose hair has gone bleached orange because of the Sun. Cantankerous, but I’ll be damned if she wasn’t sexy enough to draw this young man in. I dig bad Bitches.

With all the emotional extremes… Between her thighs lies valley sweltering heat, counterbalanced by the oddly confusing manner of a eerie cold demeanor. She wastes no time cutting through the bullshit we all use to coat bare truth. Here niggah, the elements prod and force, they completely bang on you like a disgruntled baby momma Crip would - screw faced tugging at you and daring you to do something, demanding that you quit fucking around and be a father to your goddamned kid!

Her spirit is like, immigrant Black Stone Ranger mommies who grew up illegal around this bitch. Imagine the fire inside. She’s an under aged redbone red-nose bitch of a Pit who’s always throwing up her set. She’s a new Black Panther, who has died from a stray-bullet while passing out pamphlets on the strip and is now to be buried as a Princess, in Royal True Blue - like Huey P. Newton and them were.

Yeah, she is the wind. You will often find her hiding just under a machismo heat plotting sickness in shade. Yeah, this Desert Spirit I deem feminine demands respect. It’s taken almost eight months just for my physical being to shift to her demands. And as they say here, “welcome to Devil’s country.” And in reply I nod and I say, “if this is Devil's country, then the Devil has good pussy.”

Tales of the Serpent: Thick Gorgeous Brown

We met

She left

A lasting impression

She was: Thick Gorgeous Brown

With threaded eyebrows

Her profile - slight flare either side of an ancestral ridge

Lips of the desert - left me bitter for the parting heat of such an intense sweet

We lounge alone under her long silk strands of black sheen canopy

String theory, the ancestors have weaved, since

A time when men and rodent’s, the All Givers

White Buffalo and Black Bear --

Eagle and Creatures of the sea –

Took and gave of themselves selflessly, just the same

The feet of this snake charmer

Hennaed with the print of a mountainous terrain

Cowry shell ankles that hiss meek wanting

Leaning over me while checking her split ends

She said in even tone - this represents you

Want to hear the story of Goyakala?

Then she began to sing one of Geronimo’s songs

One of Nation, a song of honor, of what it means to love

Respect for the path and praise

For the straight and narrow – an ode to the arrow…

Everything about her is ritual dance

My Earth spins and life pulses

Whipping dust and memory into a frenzy

She breaks beats and river water runs

A Black Elk calf is reborn

Laboring wind whipping tree leaves

Shout hurray with a colorful array of cacophonic praise

For the coming sign of, this – time

For she was…

Thick – Gorgeous – Brown - with threaded eyebrows

Her profile slight flare either side of an ancestral ridge

Lips of the desert, which left me bitter at the parting heat of such an intense sweet

I wonder if she will call me close to revive the bond of kinship between her people and mine forged So long ago – because I can remember…

We met - She left - A lasting impression

You know what, I have yet to see one rattlesnake. Since I’ve been here, like the Natives in this part of Southern California or rather, Northern Mexico, the rattlers too have been decimated to a mere one percent. It’s this, the lack of a soul warning rhythm, that one act of defiance I’m used to being a part of in my own city that’s got me searching and wondering. Where are the heads held high? They wear cowboy boots, so where are the crocodile and lizard soles side-winding with that slow gangster’s stride? This is what has put me on the offensive – SILENCE.Maybe it’s the natural way of the people here but, it’s got the Black Indian in me walking lazily heel toe southside of Chicago Avenue with my chin tucked and ready to spring. I feel at home, but all this silent compliance… Are they dead or sleep, or is it too hot outside to do anything? I mean, I have yet to see one tobacco stained smile boldly professing the power of their war god... I mean, is there any one Indian here with sights on the warpath? I don’t know, maybe, but I don’t see it – but they do play Bob Marley and Burning Spear in Starbucks.