Passage(s)

that’s not me moving through dry empty halls of abandoned institutions that once bristled with nubile ambitions

fuelled with privilege and intergenerational importance. that’s you, 

reaping benefits, un-generously unearned and forever collecting interest from stolen morsels of corrupt capitol 

forever unfair unfair unfair breeding 

more to feed the same. 

that’s not me craving petty nonsense that doesn’t matter to the 20 maybe 30 years that remain 

instead of being completely consumed with identity escape rooms 

truth or at least honest distractions meaning no harm to no one no where nothing to disturb this unrelenting peace-isolation it’s what I do. 

it’s you spreading raw gossip without thinking 

the hurt vibration will land upon a soul suffering a continuous phase of burdensome bad luck and you, 

your message is the straw that broke the alligator’s back snapped back into a place it took lifetimes to evolve from so you and me could meet

in cyber-cerebral enclaves we offer hyper-heart-matter and mix our Sister-strict teachings blowing up this knowing proliferated onto the page, airwaves we are street walking torch-lights upon where dead mentalities meet cremation

So I say I want to go home…

And I say, there are ways…

 

 

Home Remains where it has always been 

My efforts to return Is what changes 

And it seems 

That it is a privilege I cannot afford right now 

Right now I am land locked 

By salty seas Living on country 

That is not my own I remember the ways 

In which my parents 

Gave a grounding 

In swamps and estuaries 

That not even floods could undermine piling 

5 children into 3 seats 

In 4 and 9 hour increments 

Rushing to get behind 

The storm brewing

 Not just in their minds 

But in the cities and country towns 

Built on our denial 

My sisters made space for me 

Always on the floor 

A small bed to rest 

My head 

On top of any regrets, 

clean clothes 

Blankets and shoes 

We got our hands on that day 

Our travels were never planned 

Much like the rest of our lives 

And we now sit in reflection acknowledging 

How different the times were 

Back then 

Today I often forfeit 

Most pilgrimages 

Heading west and north 

Mostly for funerals 

And to bury our dead 

I resent these journeys and always return angry and upset 

Cos It costs $20k 

To bury our people where they lived I refuse to cross these borders Because my health will not permit 

Me to move 

Without thinking of every worst case scenario 

That could ever eventuate 

Saving all of my wealth 

To go back to the concentration camps 

My ancestors were herded into 

A few acres of land rights I

s what my mother sees 

But I do not 

The councils dont acknowledge our sovereignty 

Just a sign that says welcome to wiradjuri territory 

A cop out when 

That burdens us all 

And our descendants 

Where will my children go 

When I have left them? 

Where do they get to call home? 

Between 3 states 

Homesteads and homelands 

Stolen wealth and displaced clans 

My family often questions me 

Questioning our emotional attachment to a space unclaimed 

And denied 

By past governors 

But they build shrines 

To wars fought on foreign lands 

And whitewash mine 

Turn down their nose 

At me for speaking out of line 

About a life that was never ever questioned but survived 

White australian policies and lies. 

Where am I going this time? 

Do I really need a map 

To find something as ancient as where my bloodline 

Stops and starts across 

Fresh water 

River beds 

Rocks, heart and clay 

Pits 

Unwillingly trudge on 

Down roads best known to me in the dark 

We laugh and listen to music 

To disguise the pain of going home 

And not having a place to stay 

A bed or a room 

My son and I can occupy 

So I remain 

Where I am

 

 

So I say I want to go home…

And I say, there are ways…

 

*Eliminate the noise; 

telling you tomorrow-morrow-morrow

when did that day ever make good on a promise

or deliver something you, yourself couldn’t cultivate

 

*Book the ticket; 

take the train, plane, ship or canoe

prepare a wagon overflowing with give-a-aways 

for those who, receive you

 

*Burn the Medicines;

carry prayer of gratitude in transition from one place to the next

let them hear you say thank you - the walls, the water, the plants and people

if only with a quiet breath

this sentiment is your passport

 

*Break a Trail;

go forward on foot

away from a path of beaten scenery

distinguish yourself from the tourist 

and seek that which has not been seen

 

*Drink the Memory Serum 

commit to remember 

the embers so small still burning

ignited back to life again

remember again

*Touch Everything

connect, like an alien returning to earth

grant yourself permissions 

stimulations of inter-generational realities 

where you go, they follow what you see, they see too

 

*Wear The Robe of Knowing

dress better than expected

in invisible garments of honest intentions

enter every room as if you own it

because you do

swing and turn in circles 

confident as a fashion model

be resplendent

 

*Antennas Up;

we hold, already know

answers to questions that plague us

they are embedded inside us

so boldly bring them forth for they

are only for you, to share only

when you see fit.

 

Timing is a Trick;

harness the magic of divine time

feel when it’s right and move not

until the feeling hits, check your guts

answer the breeze when it whispers

time to go Home, You

 

 

I keep digging up this country 

My own parcel of land nestled between the reflections of red and blue also known as Waterloo where there have been countless battles every fucking day 

in the shadow of a tower built for these white men to attempt to reach their god 

Full stop 

When I get to the cement underneath and all the debris from builders to lazy to clean up after themselves 

Too much iron in this soil 

It will not sustain any lomandra 

Nothing for me to weave with 

But I nurture the strands

I have 

 

Now

 

Today 

 

Tho my garden was not meant to grow by your standards 

I am sowing seeds my ancestors 

Burnt country collected and cut the leaves 

Formed boundaries 

Beliefs 

Worshipping country 

Yet here I am digging it up 

I know now why its just sand 

And not dirt 

Its because it was a swamp and a place where water crossed paths and became creation

Spirits 

And our people gathered here 

For millennia 

My people travelling days and weeks 

Over mountains 

Headed towards the sea 

They dug up earth here 

But for a different reason

They didn’t have. To plant a forest 

In your department of housing property 

Backyard lot 

Just big enough for a trampoline 

But no dog 

Clean laundry and the boss 

The 4 year old who governs this place 

A little boy with the kid version of my face 

He digs up country but for different reasons 

He likes the way it tastes.

I am of sick of washing his mouth out so I let him lick the gritty 

Grains 

Of 

Our peoples history 

His stomach will reject it 

If he wasn’t meant to be 

Keeping it down 

The urge to paint his cheeks 

White with chalk and spit.

Why does he do this?

A typical boy 

I think not 

No

Not my boy not I 

He will be responsible for his troubles and future trauma 

but I hope he understand why I let him 

Spend 

Every summer 

Naked in the mud 

Clear water never stood a chance here and I don’t think it ever did, being a swamp and all

Factories 

Once stood 

Now fox studios 

Up the back of the pile of bricks and mudflats 

That water once came through here 

From there 

To there 

Down here and over there 

Flooded this country 

Oh what a sight 

Traveling by canoe from here to Marrickville in the night 

A fire in our nowey 

And a spark in our hearts 

Gave us directions 

That never could withstood 

Such an attempt to stand still 

Or naive enough to try and stop water flowing 

Polluted 

Them minds are and always will be as long as they don’t see 

Why you shouldn’t  keep digging up our country 

You have done enough 

To the point where I can’t grow grevilia 

Or practice 

Or any medicine or food of sustenance  

And Im sick and hella 

Full of excuses 

To sit 

In that mud 

Like my son does 

 

 

 

with audible crack                     ice reacts against warm spring rain

my heart opens again

unsuspectedly transported 

my ride arrived, as they say

and home                                no longer

an unattainable metaphoric 

Utopic domain

 

I am home                              I           AM home, again

 

all the energy once me 

now surrounds me                   but not me

not me anymore, me

 

no more time immemorial       no more time at all

no flesh jail, or feedings           no failed memories

or distracting grappling resistance

 

I am here

an ancestral realm, my soul  now knows

all the whys and wherefore nots

 

Capital fucking “H” home

family upon arriving               but I don’t join

 

my expansive spirit explores

feeling everything, the whole shebang big bang all at once

mind the satellites and cosmic debris 

find the enchanted spacescapes for soon

it becomes school

and you’ll, be lucky to receive

a teacher who                        was once where you are now

they found their way and so will you

 

Religion is nothing more, then returning something to where it belongs

 

and so we too return                         home

only division                                        dimensions

 

comprehensions in consciousness 

so easy                 so just go

just go home go home

so just                   go home 

 

 

The spoilt city kid in me 

Turns down their nose

At the wild wild whites 

Of the south 

And their false claims 

On my matriarchs home 

How dare they desecrate ancient mounds 

With their colonial names 

Canning country 

Internment camps remain 

And they still celebrate the same ways 

They imprisoned us 

Every January 

This january is different 

She brings a summer flood 

Filled to the brim 

With the spirits of this place 

River singing hymns 

Reckoning all that was built before us

Without permission 

Us

The same ones that were existing 

Of fringes of psychotic warfare 

Appealing to our oppressors 

With every 

Bite of the tongue 

Shall be left the task 

Of guiding our own homeward

To higher ground 

Out of the valleys 

That held comfort in frontier times 

Times 

When we did not believe 

That we were the solution and prayer to 

Our ancestors wishes spoken aloud

With every burial, every Gootha (baby) born  

Every marking painted 

Carved into flesh 

Into ground 

Into trees 

Everytime we search skies 

Looking for the point of creation

Where it was we all came from 

And continue patiently waiting 

To return 

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