Sensing Kat

These tired eyes may not see as good as they use to, but you will always be beautiful to me, for I view you thru my mind’s eye and the dictates of love.

These old hands, once calloused and rough from constant toil, are softer now from lack of use and the effects of arthritis here and there. But they never tire of your hand in mine or feeling how your body responds as I caress your flesh from head-to-toe.

The on-again off-again effects of tinnitus may cause me to miss a word or two in social settings or cause me to turn the music and TV up a decibel or two, but the sound of your voice is so ingrained within me that I must hear it daily before considering my day complete. And the sound of your whimpers and moans when aroused never fail to thrill me to the core.

This old nose, with a deviated septum from stopping the occasional punch, may not be able to discern a wild rose from a garden variety, but it never fails to come alive with the slightest whiff of your essence: whether it be from natural pheromones, your sexy sweat, or the arousing scent of your equally aroused secretions.

My mouth no longer has perfect pearly white teeth. And it never has been able to distinguish the secret herbs and spices in your daily recipes. But it never fails to be thrilled by the taste of your kisses: lip-to-lip or when our tongues dance in unison. And the taste of your skin, whether I trail my tongue in carefree journeys from front to back and back again, or enjoy sucking your taut nipples, is only surpassed by the elixir of love that causes me to swoon in an intoxicated stupor as I lick a meal from your aroused pussy.

It is true that each of my senses have been changed from the ravages of hard living and time. But this old body never fails to see you, touch you, hear you, smell you, and taste you in the imaginably loving ways as they always have…and always will.


May this be a far better year than the last, for us, and our followers.


The Creator did not, as some suppose, wait so long to make contact with His creations. It was mankind that took so long to realize the Creator was trying to communicate.

No doubt thousands of attempts have been made by the Creator to communicate with a species slow to comprehend the spirit language of Sky Father.

Can Ant comprehend Man? And if he cannot, how can he comprehend Earth Mother, our galaxy, or the universe?

Is Man more competent than Ant to comprehend what lies beyond the universe… or who created it?

Has not mankind continuously failed to live and communicate harmoniously with itself? And yet, humans have the audacity to claim that “God is dead or never existed, or there wouldn’t be a communication break-down.”

Sky Father is amused that our species – even after learning late in the scheme of things that Sun does not revolve around us – still remains convinced that we are the center of the universe and masters of our domain. Would we not be equally amused if a tadpole developing legs considered itself the king of the sea?


[Another contribution by JW.]

Metis’: Bred in a barrio

Choctaw, Cherokee, and Welsh: a fair-skinned metis’ raised in the bowels of a Southern California barrio in the culture of Ramirez, Romo, and Reyes: friend and foe.

Inca, Mayan, Aztec, and a cut of Spanish with Apache, Tex-Mex, and Mestizo sexed-in for good measure; a hot-blooded community communicating in Spanglish, fiestas, murals, music, faith, and blood.

The sixties generation got lost in the translation; no middle-class LSD and grass; no peace, free love, and have a flower… just poverty and shotgun blasts, and street love by rape, position, or hour.

No one was feelin’ groovy, there was no purple haze – except pollution – though some existed hollow and numb, and stumbled through their days with tequila shots, cactus juice, and cheap-ass wine that rotted their insides.

No hippies ever found our hood, but hipsters walked the block in flared-out fashion that cost all their cash… so they always tried to hustle a buck.

I saw flower-power VW bugs only on TV between Lone Ranger and Tonto and the Cisco Kid, or Speedy Gonzales at three.

I tried to like Bonanza because of Little Joe, and Johnny Madrid in Lancer really stole the show; but while they placated my fair-skin side my indigenous side felt a twinge.

The color-code in the Hollywood West, in fact, every period and place, told half of me to live with pride and the other half in disgrace – but only if I chose to buy what they were selling.

I shunned the used car tact – sell the sizzle not the bacon – I’d rather see truth, common sense, hope, and a genuine connection.

I favor a new direction in a life I choose to lead.


[Another contribution from JW: words and art.]


I am of two peoples
I am mixed-blood
One people call me Metis’
One people call me Half-Breed
But all my blood is red
I am told I’m Welsh
I have never lived in Wales
I have never even seen Wales
except those in the sea
I am told I’m Indian
I have reservations regarding many things
I have visited many reservations
I have even made reservations
But I have never lived on one
Am I Welsh without seeing Wales?
Am I Indian without residing on a reservation?
Heritage is inherited
so I am told
My father’s blood
My mother’s blood
They have intercourse within me


[Another contribution from JW.]

Little Tommy Hawk

I remember Crazy Horse, Cochise, and Sitting Bull;
the Apache Nation, Cherokee, Choctaw, and Sioux.
I respect each of them surviving how it used to be,
living through their “trail of tears,”
staying proud in their misery.

They say, “Little Tommy Hawk beat the tom-tom drum.”
But I tell them I don’t know how.
Smokin’ peace pipe and drinkin’ fire-water,
I’m not invited to the council pow-wow.
They know I’ll paint my face and pick up a gun
before anybody gets my soul.
Don’t want me around to bring the profits down.
They say, “Geronimo, you’ve got to go.”

I was forced to learn their rules
through their form of education.
Attended many of their schools,
but I lived on the reservation.
They gave me a number
to go with my name.
But I’m not a store front Indian,
I will not bear their shame.

It is true I talk their talk,
it’s a tool to help stay free.
I don’t get sore because I’m proud
when someone calls me a “breed.”
I’m also proud of the white man’s blood
that courses through my veins.
I’m not angry at the misinformed,
just those who pull the reins.

It’s not just white but red man too,
and yellow, black, and brown,
who scream about injustice
while they slap their own brother around.
It’s not the color of their skin
that makes them right or wrong;
it’s the fact that they want it all
for the price of just a song.

It’s a fool who believes
only white men dish out hell.
Use your eyes and ears,
all history tells the tale.
Each culture breeds a few
who make up their own rules;
who pacify then spit in the eyes
of those they consider fools.

They say, “Little Tommy Hawk beat the tom-tom drum.”
But I tell them I don’t know how.
Smokin’ peace pipe and drinkin’ fire-water,
I’m not invited to the council pow-wow.
They know I’ll paint my face and pick up a gun
before anybody gets my soul.
Don’t want me around to bring the profits down.

They say, “Geronimo, you’ve got to go.”

“Geronimo, you’ve got to go.”


[Another contribution from JW, while I continue to endure medical issues.]