Don't let the bastards grind you down. I repeat this to myself but it conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or, Don't be.

Would you consider what I call the “inner eye” which opens for some of us, though not always when we want it or expect it – would you consider the inner eye as one of the sensory nerves?

I lay my body down in another city, another hotel room. Once Louis Armstrong and his band stayed here. Later the hotel fell to trash. New money resurrected it. Under the red moon of justice, I dream with the king of jazz.

Written By Joy Harjo

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