Tuesday, January 31, 2006

 

Maximize Effeciency

Woke up late, and don't really have anything to write, but I want to write because that is who I am.

I've been watching "The Fog of War," piece by piece, over the last several days. One of Robert Mcnamara's life lessons is to "maximize efficiency." In that case it was the maximum amount of destruction for the minimum amount of destruction to your own. That is why American war is so imbalanced. That is why in the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Iraqis since the first illegal war in 1991 to the present, the enemy was so effectively weakened as to be basically walking dead. They had no real military force to face the American lead slaughter. Sanctions, todays American smallpox blanket. Then, we claim ourselves to be greater because we can most effectively use cruelty than any other nation. "Maximum efficiency" as Bob might say.

Daniel Boone had a conversation with Tecumseh when he was 7. To paraphrase, he said this is how Americans do business. He kept one hand behind his back and reached the other to Tecumseh. When he had his hand, he held it fast and swung a knife he had hidden behind his back and put it to the 7-year-olds throat. He told him that is how Americans do business.

Maximum amount of cruelty to create maximum amount of wealth for minimum amount of white men at the expense of ALL LIFE FORMS.

Maximize Efficiency! Wouldn't that be intersting if that were used for...say...PEACE, health care, unions, human rights, womens rights, indigenous rights, etc. But not here in America. Maximize the use of cruelty to effectively control the world and steal everything for a few already wealthy white men.

Maximum cruelty to bring about the most efficient control of the population to suck the wealth out of all life forms for a few white men.

Know what? Fuck it! I say Peace, sisters and brothers. I say Peace. I say maximize celebration to create the most efficient population focused on Revolution to honor all human rights. I say FUCK IT! Let's celebrate Love. Let's Love Life. Let's Love life so much that we ALL DECIDE TO LIVE FOR PEACE! REVOLUTION NOW!

Monday, January 30, 2006

 

The Gods of Generosity

She wandered under the bus shelter
singing a little tune.
I turned and smileed at her,
knew the all too familiar story.

"Hello, Brother,"
she says.
"Hello, how are you?"
I ask.
"I'm singing a song
and I have an umbrella.
I'm not doing too bad."

Her eyes tell the story
of suffering on the streets.
She doesn't have to tell me
but she does
because she wants to survive.

"I'm Tulalip from Washington.
We have a casino now,"
she tells me.
"Hey, I'm short 85 cents for the bus.
Can you help me out?"
"Sure," I say
and remove a handful of change
from my pocket.
I give it all to her.
"Thanks," she says
and moves on her way.

I watch
as she continues her journey
to the next shelter.
She drops the umbrella to the ground
and leaves it behind
without a backward glance.

She's like a spirit
not all in her body
but then who'd want to be
in a situation like that.
I watch as she wanders
in and out of the
neutral colored building
the next block down.
(Neutral, as opposed to natural)
She wanders in and out
of each man made crevice.
disappears
reappears
disappears
reappears
disappears
reappears

2.

"Sombody asks me for money
I give it to them,"
Martin (pron. Marteen) told me one time
with a grin on his face.
"My friends would complain.
'You shouldn't give them money.
You know what they're gonna do with it.'
'But what if they're
a spirit,'
I'd tell them,
'coming to check up on Martin
and make sure I'm being
generous
like I'm supposed to be?'"

3.
There is a man
singing on the Northeast corner
of Third and Bunside
in downtown Portland.
He faces West and sings old pop songs
as I journey toward the bridge
and the BOO.
"I've seen fire and I've seen rain..."
I've never been a big fan of pop,
but this morning,
I think I learned to love at least the songs he sang
only because
he was generous enough
to share his voice with us this morning.
His voice swims West
over the wet concrete
through the trees
past the ears of the audience
of fellow human beings walking down the street.
I tip my Che hat to you,
my friend.
A nice way to start the morning.
Thank you!

Sunday, January 29, 2006

 

Rough Night

I had a rough night last night. Still am. Not sure how to write about it, or even if I should.

Brown water of my sister,
not all that far away.
As I cross the spans of my favorite bridge
I will make offerings and pray.

She can't take away the pain,
but she can wash me
and make me feel whole again.

trigger...
trigger...
trigger...

Wash it away, sister
If even for a moment.
Sometimes it's like a stone
tied around my neck
and the river is rising.
But everything is lighter
when carried by the water
...i hope...

Saturday, January 28, 2006

 

Lewis and Clark

I was asked my opinion on the Lewis and Clark fiasco. Simply put, they were the front men for the genocide of Indians going coast to coast.

Here are some interesting points I like to bring up. Before Lewis and Clark the middle of America was almost all Indian. Now, it isn't. People call it "manifest destiny" and many other lies. I call it "genocide." [we call it maize]. The immense death and destruction that was perpetuated on the East coast went coast to coast. It didn't become the way it is today from whitey treating us with love and respect.

Another thing about Lewis and Clark, they were assisted by numerous people that went along the journey with them, including an Indian woman (who is frequently mentioned), a slave (who is less frequently mentioned), and many other white men (who are rarely mentioned at all). But the most important men, as if they took this journey on their own, are Lewis and Clark, who came from wealthy white families. It's the wealthy white men who get all of the attention, and the rest of us are just extras in the great plays about themselves.

In an article by Polo in the Asian Reporter, Polo describes Lewis and Clark as a couple of fucking idiots who couldn't take care of themselves nor would they ask for help for their arrogant cracker asses because they were too good to ask darkies for assistance in health care or other areas of their white wealthy superior lives.

When I was growing up (and I tell this story often), I watched those history carts that came on during the Saturday morning cartoons. One told of the Blackfoot attack on those viscious characters who were only interested in fucking or raping Indian women and getting handouts. The Blackfoot thought "their goes the neighborhood," and attempted to kill off these disrespectful cracker ass mother-fuckers. They killed three of the pieces of shit (the cart tells it) but then a wounded man fired off a tiny swivel mini-cannon weapon over the heads of the Blackfoot Indians. The blackfoot (so the story went), having heard the mighty cannon being fired, released them to finish their intended spearhead of global domination that it has become today. They let them go, it is alleged, because of the superior fire power of whitey. I was always suspicious of this story because I knew the Blackfoot had guns for at least 50 years and knew that it took some time to reload them. They'd have finished off all those crackers in a matter of minutes before they could even attempt a reloading. My adoptive Blackfoot parents and the Blackfoot solicitor general tell the story a little differently. The story was passed down in their oral history. Seems that during the altercation, Lewis and Clark went into the hold of their boat and came out with glass vials that had cloth in them. The Blackfoot had survived some 5 of the 6 smallpox plagues beset upon their people (all but one of those plagues were deliberately set). So the Blackfoot knew they were carrying smallpox. So they released the pieces of shit to finish their genocidal journey. (If you believe oral history is inferior to written history, I'd like to point out the Columbus biography written by Samuel Elliot Morrison. A book of lies and bullshit to make a stupid mother fucker who was lucky to make it out alive on his voyages look like a great man. You know, like Karl Rove does for George Bush.)

The above story makes more sense to me, and I believe it. People did know how diseases were spread back in those days. I believe there was actual smallpox infested cloth in those vials because America is full of cruel assholes who love doing those types of things in order to create greater wealth for already wealthy white men. It is a pattern repeated throughout history and will continue to be repeated into the future until we decide to really stop it.

Me, I'm not into celebrating the triumphs of genocidal wealthy white men. They've created way too much killing, way too much death, way too much destruction. Why the fuck am I supposed to celebrate that?

 

What does peace look like?

I'm rewatching "The Fog of War." The question was asked about the decision to use firebombs to murder so many Japanese civilians as to be war crimes (all war is crime). Was it Lemay's decision. Yes, especially since people like Mcnamara were telling them that was what he should do.

America, I've read, is occasionally using the kidnapping of women in Iraq to get at their husbands who are suspected insurgents created by a war that is both illegal and immoral.

Roe V. Wade faces the possibility of being overturned by a bunch of white men and white identified people. They always go after the women. They always have to have someone to attack. Small wars here (which are big wars) to take our attention from the big wars (which are bigger wars) over there. It's always war. Let's put an end to all war.

What does peace look like?

 

Laughter

I walked across that wonderful bridge known as the Burnside Bridge with my daughter this morning with the possibility of seeing my ex to give Felicia a present.

She wants to connect to our lives
She wants us to be part of hers
But she never did when we were there
and she let that be known.
Creating connections by gifts
and fear of force...
but the force has no power
not anymore
because I learned it takes two to tango (tangle)
and I decided to stop
that crazy dance
that my daughter
was caught in the
whirwinds of.

Our hair whips in the wind
as we stand on the sidewalk
of that bridge I Love so much
that spans the river
that I Love so much.
I Love the bridge
because I can more easily communicate
with my sister
that thousands pass over
and few honor.

"Watch this, dad," she says
and faces the wind
that whips her hair
like flames at a sweat lodge fire.
Fire of life,
fire of creativity,
fire of celebration...
We laugh
and enjoy the feirce
groping, frisking, hug, love, humor, communion.

We've made it out alive.
We're a bit bruised and damaged
in our spirits
but healing is a process
that seems to be working for us.
And the water passes beneath our feet
so fast
so powerful
so beautiful
and chocolate brown.
We make offerings
that are blown back in our faces
across the bridge
and to our sister,
the river.

We made it out alive,
and we have to laugh
because we are so good
at laughing.

Friday, January 27, 2006

 

Sell Me Some Shit!

There's a commercial in my ear. Always somebody trying to sell me something so uninteresting they have to force it on me. Creativity sucked and eaten.

Everytime I see Bush, he's trying to sell me something.

"Here's one Great Big Pile of Bullshit for only $46 billion and you get no say in what we do. Nor do you need to know. So come on down and kick a darkie or two."

Everytime I turn around, bush has made yet another illegal activity legal simply by saying it is. "Cocaine is legal if your daddy is wealthy and white and president and head of the CIA."

I'm really 6'3" and look like thoe Italian models on the cover of 1/2 breed Indian romance novels. You know, the ones with the six pack abs who bends the white woman over backwards as she willingly surrenders her half naked breasts to him. Yeah! That's me. That 5'10" pudgy fella behind the mic is just a disguise. Yeah! I become 6'3" buff and Italian looking when we make Love. Really! Here...let me prove it.

All Bush has to say is it's legal (for him and his wealthy white buds) and POOF, it is! Like the pedophile loving pope, Bush has become infallible and by simply declaring an illegal activity legal, amazingly, it becomes so.

Don't you wish you could do that? Need a new car? Just walk on the lot and take one. When the cops stop you, just tell them you declared it a legal activity. The cop'll say, "Oh. Okay! On your way then. Go ahead." It's OK. Like GW, I just declared it legal.

So, pick a crime, any crime, and simply declare it legal. It's OK, the president does it.

 

Friends

I realized yesterday as I was hanging out with my friend Julie, that it was about a year ago that we became good friends. Same with you Leigh Anne. Are you reading this. It was around this time we became good friends as well!

Tyrone,
your smiling face
helped me know
that my cousin was safe
with you.

Cousin,
we are just human beings,
and you behaved as one as well.
Shot down...
murdered.
What an odd thing
to find out
your cousin has been murdered.

I still see you smiling face
from time to time.
I can see you
standing in the trees outside
laughing and smiling
as the rain doesn't touch your body
but does your spirit.
Thank you for being here
brother
and thank you
for the little ones.
Thank you
for those little brown babies.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

 

Life is good!

My personal routine involves walking across the Burnside Bridge on a regular basis.

This morning, the wind was strong. It amazes me to feel that power push my body, caress my face, whisper in my ears.

In the early mornings like these, I love looking down from the place where I make my offerings, where the bridge separates for ships passing underneath. The waters she spans are fast. The current is swift and reflected like a chocolate covered cherry in the red light just below me. The clouds are dark and ominious. Puffy clouds layered beneath dark gray rain stuffed giants.

The world is amazing to me. I have thought many things crossing her spans. Revolution, Love, Alito, Friends, Poems, Life...Life is good!

Now, she is being doctored. It has been years. She has supported humans without complaint for years, and now she is being doctored, cared for, Loved.

I wonder if she feels like I do, sometimes. Like you finally get something off of you that you've been working on for so long, and there you go. You heal, you take care of yourself, you allow others to care for you. And soon, she'll be out there doing the good work for the people, carrying them across the river. Carrying their cars across the river. Carrying their food and water across the river.

Some windy morning, you all should get up, go stand on that bridge, feel the power, see the beauty, feel the beauty within yourself.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

 

The Thoughts That Keep Me Awake At 2am

It is a humid and cold morning. I loved crossing the bridge and seeing the very choppy water as the winds blew frost into my fingers as I held my racist cigar. The water is so choppy it looks like the big waves are actually heading up river as they dance with the street lights. The tiny waves look like they're going in down river. I look from my offering space and see the river flowing strong in the red light between me and her. The river, she looks like she is flowing both ways.

A (MIXED) BAG OF TRICKS

A white auntie read my book.
She didn't say she hated it,
but she did say I sure was angry
and mentioned to my sister
that I'm half white as well.

At the annual white family reunions
a younger cousin
encouraged by his white grandma
would ask me all sorts of questions.
"Do you have a horse?"
"No."
"Do you have a bow and arrow?"
"No."
"You're not a real Indian."

But I must be a real Indian
because when my white grandparents celebrated christmas
the white grandkids would have a separate holiday
where the white grandparents bought them expensive gifts
and they were told not to tell us.
Us Indian kids got gifts worth less than a dollar.
If they really believed us to be white
wouldn't we have gotten similar gifts?
Being half white,
wouldn't that entitle us
to gifts that were
half as expensive?

Being half white
can I go to half of the KKK meetings?
half of the skinhead rallies?
half of the aryan brotherhood meetings?
could my white half
kill my Indian half
and take half of my land?

If I went to boarding school,
would the priests have only
stuck it in half way?

When I sit in a room
full of white people I don't know,
I wonder which ones want to kill me
for being a darkie
in the midst of their all white privilege.
Would being half white
save half my ass?

I could do my best to pass
cut my hair
dye it blonde
bleach my skin
only to have some white guy find out
and ask why I don't honor my heritage.

Here in the land of alleged freedom
I am not allowed to be who I am.

Louisiana, I've heard
has a one drop law.
If you have one drop of black blood
you are all black.

I'm an Indian
'til you become uncomfortable
and you'll remind me I'm part white
but I'll still never benefit
from white privilege.

Blood quantum is a white thing
and it doesn't mean shit.
Indians will put me in a box too
though not to the extent whitey does.

It's so odd
to have others define my race
for their own convenience.
Once I'm confined
into the porper box
it's easier to find me
in the cross hairs
find where I live
put me on a train
in a box car
with the last of us.

I can sit
in a room full of Indians
and feel accepted.
Remember what I said
about the room full of white people?
I can never forget.

Hidalgo was a mixed blood horse
with a mixed blood Indian.

When I saw things in a meditation
my mixed blood friend
said it dealt with mixed blood feelings
mixed blood
charging forward
pushing forward
getting up and moving forward
mixed blood.

"Hold to the quarter blood quantum..."
Define them out of existence.
White man mathematics.

My seventh grade social studies teacher
told my whole class
there are no "real" Indians left.
Even if my white half
declared in its white superiority
that my Indian half
was defined out of existence
I still couldn't join
the kkk.

It's not your blood
but how you live.

Can you tell
which half of me is white?
Maybe if you felt around.
"YOU SAVAGE!"
Should I rip off your bodice
now?
Isn't that what mixed bloods do
to captive white women?

Mixed bood
means I'm impure,
unclean,
partially human,
not human at all.

I know who I am
and while you are busy
trying to cram me
into your boxes
to define for yourself
who and what I am,
I'll still DEMAND it all back.
I'll still DEMAND what's right.

Put that in a box
and stick it in your closet.

SINGLES AD

Spirit made it clear to me
that I am single by choice.
(I should have stayed
and gotten her phone number.)

I'm 42
and still have no idea
how to do this.

There are about
half a dozen women
I'm interested in.
Though they are friendly to me
it doesn't mean
they're interested back.
How do you tell?

The woman waved at me
to get my attention.
I waved back
and still left
like a fool.

I drop tiny hints,
none of which are taken.

I'm told there are women intereseted in me,
but not enough
to pass a phone number
or want to have coffee with me.

How does this work?
What do I do?
I have no idea.
so I go home
alone
everynight.

Eh!
What does one do?
I don't feel lonely
or alone.
But it would be nice
to feel you in my arms.

SINGLES AD

One Indian
slightly used
pudgy
fairly good condition
likes to hold hands
go on hikes
write poetry
attend ceremonies
activism
make radio and TV
wants a Revolution
Laughs a lot
Loves Che and wears che hats, socks, and shirts

seeking woman
who'll Love me back
for a change
temporary? part-time? full-time? lifetime?
If you want
we can take the time
to find out.

Intersted parties just
tap the Indian on the shoulder
and say "hello."

Pot and chocolate
wouldn't hurt, either.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

 

Abortion

Abortion is a right. Women have been having them for ages. Infanticide has been happening for ages. Even in CHRISTIAN societies. Now white humans with outies are going to tell all women (innies) what they can and cannot do with their bodies and again lie to you and say this is the land of freedom.

Not feeling very creative lately, but it is nice to take a vacation from that. Everytime I sit down to write something I get two lines out and poof...sudden stop.

Monday, January 23, 2006

 

Live and Learn

What if we gave a sweat and nobody came? You probably thought I answered that question in a post a couple of months ago. Well, it happened again yesterday. One person did show up and we did a meditation, but no sweat...("no sweat"...funny).

I talked with a friend when I came home and told her about the powwow. I joked that I could have called Chuck this morning and told him I couldn't make it because I was busy making little brown babies. But NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I had to be a fool and go home instead. Live and Learn. And it would have worked out nicely since no one showed up for the sweat anyway...well, except one person. Still...it would have worked out as my friend pointed out.

The moon is out this morning, and it shown beautifully on the river. Like a prayer, like a song...we danced together.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

 

What is today?

Hey one and all.

Pardon my whiny ass poem in the previous posts about no one being interested in me out there and that is why I'm still single. Spirit made it prevalently clear that the reason why I am single is because I "choose to be single." I will try not to whine about Love anymore. If I do, please feel free to point out the above to me.

Having talked with a friend about the "Hidalgo" movie, she convinced me that it was worth watching, but it was severely Hollywood. Formulaic versions of history, but many good points about our people the the things we've gone through. Everything she told me was true. It was worth the watch. It was formulaic Hollywood version of history. And there were many good references to Indian culture.

Gosford Park, however, I'm still having a hard time watching. It's that british aristocracy that considers themselves more human than their fellow human beings. I hate them so much. I watched some 45 minutes of the Movie, and about 35 minutes of that was just filled with abosolute hatred for the british aristocracy that I was having a very hard time seeing beyond that.

Today, we will be sweating and praying together.

There will be another book release party for all those who missed the previous. It will be on February 10th, at Grendel's Coffee House, again, from 7-10pm. It is a Friday and more conducive to those who do the five day a week thing. Hold onto your hats because I hope to inspire all of you to consider Revolution as a viable option to the bullshit currently known as the united states government. Eh! We'll see...

more later, REVOLUTION NOW!

Oh, yeah! Grendel's is at 8th and East Burnside, Northwest Corner. I'll see your there, or I'll see you somewhere else.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

 

Poca...something?

Another movie has been made about one of the "good Indians," Pocahantas. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. A movie I wont see. Wes Studhi and young actress Q'Orianka Kilcher both complained that many of their scenes were left on the cutting room floor. Best to tell the lies than anything close to the truth. Shhhh! Listen carefully...and you still won't learn a fucking thing.

I tried to watch Hidalgo. I had a hard time with it. The Wounded Knee bullshit scene. I don't take these things lightly. It aint no fucking joke or a lie I'm speaking in a movie. But I can't move beyond this sympathetic white character showing the pity and guilt he feels for Indians. Fuck you! I don't want your fucking sympathy. I simply want EVERYTHING BACK!

 

My Head is Still Spinning!

I think in poetry,
like another language.
It is a second language I claim as my own
and everything becomes poetry.

God said, "the old is gone, the new is here."
I read on the church sign.
"Red is going,
White is coming."
It's all as simple as that.
All the genocide, rape, destruction,
all simply justified
in 8 little words.
Tell me again
that poets don't have the fucking power.
There it is,
right there.
The reasoning
and justification
as to why we were raped as a people.

Today, the Burnside bridge is closed,
but I'm told I can walk across, as long as I stay on the sidewalk.
And my sister is beautiful
pouring her soul
cleansing my prayers.
I see the construction
I see things most pay no attention to
other than the fact
they are being inconvenienced.

I think in poetry.
A tug with a little boat in tow
over by the eastside walkway.
Little boat releases
and starts working on the raft of ditritus
lodged beneath
the eastside walkway.
Big hunks of logs
and tiny bits and pieces
are sent swimming down the river.
Sometimes
we have many tools at our disposal
to clean the shit out of our lives, ehhhh!

[The following are poems I wrote between 2am and 5am this morning. Don't worry, I got plenty of sleep. My head has been spinning since my book release. I have the attention of many, what do I want to say? I have a responsibility. What do I say? And in that little meeting, I faced much of the subtle racism that I despise so much from my family who doesn't know me. And my head is spinning as I have to face this and share my words with the people. But these are the people whose hearts I want to change. They are the ones I want to wake up. Maybe they can make a difference in it all. They listened to half, they bought my books, they never listened to the radio show, they never watched the TV show, but...here they are. Supporting me. And I want to change their hearts. Help them to understand, but know that they will just disappear out of my life like the Indians disappeared before Lewis and Clark. Here we go. The following three poems I want to go in the order they came out, that is why this is going to be a single post.

Make that 4. My head is still spinning.]

DEPENDENT

The river is so beautiful,
Milk chocolate brown
bright sun radiating her surface
like a beautiful smile.
I lean against the concrete rail
and smile at her beauty.

The city is so beautiful
and so tragic.

I picked up my check
from work earlier
and waited to see
my friend
when the homeless man
whom my co-workers call
my "dependent"
arrives
because he knows
I'm getting paid today.
I have known
and do know
many homeless people
because there are so many
homeless people
but he is the first one...ever...
to treat me like this.

I tell him
I haven't cashed my check
and I'll be back later
but he waits,
because he knows I'm on foot
and he can follow me to the bank.

Everything is so beautiful
today,
the river,
the people
the birds.
As I stood on a corner
of Burnside downtown
I see a beautiful woman
on a bike
on the opposite corner
across the canyons
of asphalt.
Something about her
more than just her beauty.
She seems to radiate happiness
this day.
The signal tells us we are free
and as we cross the barriers of road,
she pays no attention to me.
I glance at her and see
she is radiating happiness.

As I walked through the store
also known as my work place
to find my friend again,
I see Dependent looking in the front door
as he is no longer allowed inside.
Our relationship has become
him sucking off of me.
Dependent.

I tried to draw the poem out
by sitting on the back deck
of my home
when I finally got there.
I smoked a cigar
and then the spirits showed me
with many clear signs
that now
was not the time,
but soon.

"You want me to talk to him?"
"Sure," I jokingly tell my friend
and then say
"No, I have to deal with this."
Out of respect for the man
I cannot let the words
come from any mouth
other than my own.

"Next week I'm gonna start
a program on a farm,"
Dependent told me
a month ago.
He'd be apprenticing or something
on a farm for a year.
I'm honestly happy for him
give him some money
and next week he is still there.

Unlike all the other homeless people
I know and have known
I'll emerge from a coffee shop
and he will oggle my drink
smack and lick his lips
"That sure looks good,"
If I'm buying myself something
why aint I buying him something.

"EUGENE!" he yelled across the street
more than once.
"BUY ME SOME COFFEE!
BUY ME SOMETHING TO EAT!"
My Dependent.

Life is tough on the streets
but my Dependent tells me
he didn't make it to his ride
for the farm
because
he was "fucked-up."

"Can you help me out, Eugene?"

I emerge from the door of my work.
"Look [Dependent],"
I tell him,
"I just can't take this leaching off me
shit
anymore.
I'm not going to give you anything
anymore."

He is visibly wounded,
but he is always
visibly wounded
I walk away and don't look back.
I feel angry
and lighter.

As I think of this poem
I don't want you to use it
as an excuse not to help.
Homelessness is a societal problem
not an individual problem.
I'm still gonna help and give,
just not to dependent.
Homelessness can be ended
but our tax money
goes into killing
instead.

On the back deck of my home
I open my eyes to see
bare tree branches
silhouetted by the sky.
Even the shingsles
on the roof are beautiful.
Green moss and leafy duff
all over the place.
The earth is wet and mosit,
the sunset on the horizon
bright and loving.
This world is so beautiful
and so tragic.

DIPLOMACY

She has gifts
from the holidays
I was supposed to hate
and love
but who can read the maps
when all directions
are the wrong way
but only when I'm driving.

But there is a connection
holidays and presents
to bring me back into her presence
if only for a moment.
The way she'd tell me
"I hate you!"
rings in my memory.
The way she'd insult
my people and way of life
how my soul was wrong
for wanting to be me.

But she has presents
from holidays I was supposed
to love and hate.
But I can see
just beneath her skin
behind her bones and flesh
...she still hates me.

[NEVER...REALLY?]

[My voices
have again been telling me
that Love will not come my way
for a long time
and quite possibly never.

Are they teasing me?
Am I giving myself shit?

One says "never,"
One says "three years."
The rest remain silent.
But I can live with that.
There are no apparent desires
on the part of others
to change that to sooner.
My crushes always end in friendships.
There are one way streets
in every corner of this town.
I look at the failures
that were my marriages
and wonder
if I can turn things around.
If I can trust Love
as much as Friendship.
Can I trust...
I don't know.
There are no takers
so I have plenty of time...
three years
or maybe life times.
Is this a way to hate myself?
Is this an opportunity
to change all that energy
into the direction
of Revolution.
A little from column A
a little from column B.

Loneliness is nothing
when all I've known is lonliness
even though I was married
for 13 1/2 years altogether.

But I have nothing to worry about.
There are no curious
knocking at my doors.
I sit in the ruins
of concrete and rebar
and steel doors
of my imagination
that would lead me to Love
and there is nothing but nature
on either side,
no one to attack me
no one to Love me.]

CIRCUS SIDESHOW FREAK

I prep for my book release
as my white mother
her husband
her mother
and her sister
have come to join
the celebration
of my birthday and book release.
These people who know
nothing of me
and want to know
nothing of me.
They see my book
and never knew
the name given to me
so many years ago
by my auntie.

"How do you say that in Indian?"
"How do you say that in Indian?"
"How do you say that in Indian?"
"How do you say that in Indian?"

"Our language has been pretty much destroyed,"
I have to explain.

I feel like a sideshow freak
in my own fucking circus.

"Oh honey, look,"
the husband would say to his wife at the zoo.
"It's a wild Indian
in his natural habitat.
Say something in Indian for us...
Oh, how quaint.
Dance for us, Indian.
good Indian."

My ex-wife shows up
with a gift
and I worry of confrontation.
I can feel her anger.
She wants to connect
but those words
screamed at me
so often by her
ring through my soul...
"I hate you!"
and I know
she still hates me.
She doesn't stay.

As I pour my soul
into the mic,
I know my family
saw a stranger
they would never
intentionally visit.
I said a lot
in Indian
using the enemies language.
The only language
that should be spoken
in this country,
or so
the Mexicans are told.

Me...
I prefer to speak
in Poetry.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

 

What can I say?

I am having a hard time putting yesterday into words. Maybe later I will know what to say! Thank you and I Love you all.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

 

Welcome

Pulled from the depths of my soul
I again woke up
in this odd and beautiful world.

Cobwebs dominate my mind this morning,
combinations of dust
and smoke.

How did I get here?

My friends got me here.
My family got me here.
My daughter got me here.
You got me here.

Where am I going?

World peace.
The honoring of human rights
for one and all.
I will experience life all along the way.
I will laugh, cry, love...
I will do ceremony.
I will remember my ancestors
and those yet to come.
I will do what I can.

Welcome.

Let's take this time
to journey together
if only for a moment
or maybe lifetimes.

Welcome.

Monday, January 16, 2006

 

Between the Earth and Sky

The stars shine
on the cuffs of my shirt.
Rain dances in
the flowing water
with a concrete stage.
Darkness dances
in the shade
of the artificial light.
The rain connects me
to the river
from high above.
Reborn.
Born anew.
Something new.

Ever squeeze an intense emotion
through the narrow gaps in your soul?

"I release you
my great and terrible fear.
I realease you."

A little more freedom in your step.
A little more love in your heart.

The dark sky reaches down to me
with its wet love
and sends it pouring
to my wet love
and the earth and sky and I...
are one
for a brief moment in time.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

 

Things Do Happen When You Look Your Worst!

Yesterday, I came to KBOO and wrote a little about dressing my absolute worst. Mostly, I am tired of wearing two pants in order to keep my dignity.

I hung out with my friend, Leigh Anne, for the afternoon. We went to Mother's Bistro and ate the most wonderful Wild Salmon Hash. Mmmmmmm!

We went to a downtown cowboy store where I found a 10-gallon hat that I'd like complete with a hefty price tag as well as being to small for my big head.

We then hung out at a DT Coffee People and talked and I read LA some of the stuff I had just written.

We then went and hung out with her hubbie, Brian, who is burning some CD's for me. Leigh Anne told me she was going to a writing workshop in Salem and was making a polenta dish with tomatoes, cheese, salsa, and other goodies.

She then took me home where I was to have a date with my housemate who was going to take me to Equinox restaurant.

I saw a young girl in the doorway and wondered if Heidi had brought some of her dance troupe work home. I heard Felicia's voice saying something like, "He's here!" Which confused the heck out of me because Felicia wasn't supposed to be there for another 20 minutes or so. I opened the door and all the people inside yell "SURPRISE!" It was a surprise birthday party for me!

I was surprised, but not completely. I had read a note during the week that said "Addendum to Eugene's surprise birthday party," but read no further. I didn't really think about it too much after that and figured it was something to do with the event on Tuesday. But here we were, the Saturday before my actual birthday, and having a great time with spice foods and good people.

Tony G. was there, and I read him my story as well as heard some very funny stories. A good time was had by all, and although we were supposed to cap the evening with some contra dancing, it didn't work out as the task of putting the food away took much more time than Heidi and I expected.

Heidi is such a wonderful friend and housemate. I was so happy that she did this for me. No one, lover or otherwise, had ever given me such a wonderful gift.

I also got LOTS of hot sauce, I get to eat the fresh peppers that Heidi had collected for a pepper identification contest. I got a Che hat. Life is good. Life is very good.

Again, no one has ever done such a thing for me. I really didn't expect it. I just expected to go to my book release/birthday party at the Red and Black on Tuesday. This is so special. I think I'll smoke a cigar on the way home. Sounds good to me.

Thank you so much all of my wonderful friends. I Love you all so much!

Saturday, January 14, 2006

 

Beware of White Men in Suits Who Sit Behind Desks

David Letterman invited me to be a guest on his show. Me! Of all people! Why me? Doesn't he know me? He must! That's his job, which makes me more suspicious of this white skinned man in a suit.

This runs through my mind as I stand behind the curtain at the side of the stage. I hear words going over a speaker but pay no attention until I hear my name called. Suddenly, I'm pushed from behind and propelled almost stumbling onto the stage.

I get half way to the white skinned man with short hair sitting behind a desk and stop. I eyeball him suspiciously.

"Mmmmm! Ugh!" I think to myself. "Mmmm! White man...Killum 98% all Indin! No likem white man! No trustum white man."

I look out at the audience. All are clapping. I see a beautiful Indian woman in the front row. She is dressed in her finest clothes. I walk up to her and extend my hand.

She is shocked and suprrised at being given my attention. Why? I don't know. But she shakes my hand. I hold her hand gently, but don't let go. I ask her name...she tells me. I ask her nation...she tells me.

"White men scare me," I say, pointing over my shoulder at David Letterman. "Especially white men in suits who are sitting behind desks. Never underestimate the destruction white men in suits can do. But I know white men get nervous when they are outnumbered. Wanna come up on the stage with me?" I ask.

Her warm hand jerks from mine. She covers her lips with both hands and says, "no," from behind her fingers. "I couldn't."

I reach again for her hand and she gently offers her left. I see the ring. I look at the white man to her right. "That your husband?" I ask, pointing at him with my lips.

"Yes," she laughs as I hold her hand.

I look him up and down. He is blonde, blue-eyed, with short hair and skin as white as the paper I'm writing this story on. I look him in the eye. "You must be Cherokee," I say.

His eyes widen with surprise. He sits forward and grabs my left hand and said, "How could you tell? My great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess."

I smile softly and look at his wife, whom I can tell is embarassed that he didn't get the joke. I look back at the Cherokee, squeeze his hand and say, "nice to meet you," and release myself from our brief bond...but not from the bond with his beautiful Indian wife.

"C'mon," I request and gently tug and am surprised when she stands in agreement. She smiles.

"Don't worry," I tell her. "He won't bite now. He'll be outnumbered. Whitey won't get us if he's outnumbered."

She let me guide her by the hand to and across the stage to the comfy sofa beside the desk of the white man in a suit. We sit together and both cross our legs at the same time, right over left.

I see the whole audience is laughing. I realize they heard the whole conversation through a microphone. I eyeball David suspiciously as he wipes tears from behind his glasses with his index fingers as he comes down after a hard laugh. My eyes squint. He's outnumbered now.

"Whatchoo want, whitey?!" I ask, which sends David into a serious bout of laughter.

David laughs so hard he falls backwards. He hits his left knee on his desk, continues backward and hits the back of his head on the floor. He is still laughing, but visibly wounded. He rolls slowly over onto all fours. He is drooling and laughing and his ass is pointed at me. I realize I am seeing David in a way most people don't. I am worried that the thing may be loaded and could go off at any moment.

I see medics coming to help David and realize my interview is probably over due to my dangerous performance art.

I look at the Indian woman beside me. She has fallen onto her side on the sofa and is laughing deleriously.

The whole audience is laughing. But there is one laugh above all of the other laughter. It is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing. Worse yet, it sounds familiar.

I squint and shade my eyes from the artificial light in what is naturally a dark room.

I see an Indian in the back. He is standing clutching his belly with his left hand and pointing at me with his right. His laugh is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing.

I stand and take a few steps forward as I continue to shade my eyes. I recognize him.

"IS THAT YOU, COYOTE!?"

[This story is dedicated to Tony G., who tells one of the best Coyote stories I have ever heard, because it happened to him. This story, however, is fictional. David Letterman would never invite me to be on his show.]

 

Holy Pants, Batman!

About a month ago, I spent the night at a friends helping her with her business products and talking all night long. As I headed over there after dropping my daughter off during the cold spell, I started feeling a draft in my bikini area only to discover a giant hole in my pants. It was a good thing I had my pajama bottoms with me.

So, over a period of a couple of weeks, the same three pairs of black jeans that I've owned for a billion and a half years all developed large holes in the crotch.

My friend Cynthia suggested it would be a good recruiting method to get women to come down and do Indian radio with me. She even demonstrated a few positions I could sit in for the best results. I joined in with a few of my own. ...yeah...anyway.

I don't give a fuck about Alito. In my opinion, it doesn't matter who they put in that position, the United States Government is still gonna be a bunch of wealthy white men creating greater wealth for themselves.

Mind you, yes, it is important that we try to stop this fucking demon claiming human form, but I want the whole system. I want it all. I want to create a new system that benefits all, not just the wealthy white men of this nation.

Yesterday, I bought a pair of bright red comfy shoes. Today, I am breaking them in. Today, I just don't care about my apprearance. I've gotten so tired of wearing sweats underneath holy pants this week with all this rain soaking me all day long along with the sweating involved with my work. I'm just tired of wearing that shit. I dug through the storage space in my bedroom and found an old pair of kung fu pants. I grabbed my stained Frank Salcido shirt, the one with the brightly colored horses dancing across my heart. My scarf and coat. And of course, my bright red comfy shoes.

Walking across the Burnside Bridge this morning, I notice how everything is kind of drab colored. Not that it's bad. It is very beautiful. Brown river. Wet everything. Dark clouds. The brightest thing in this world are my red shoes. I have to laugh.

Last weekend I met a bunch of former gang members. My daughters birth father is a former gang member. I feel safer with my daughter in the presence of gang members than I do in front of the cops.

It saddened me to hear the stories up in Tacoma of the Indians killing each other in gangs in that city. It is alleged that the cops don't do much investigating into these things because they get a substantial federal monetary contribution with every minority gangland killing. Indians killing Indians...it sounds like the good old days.

We all have to fight. We have to fight for health care. We have to fight at work. We have to fight the forces of the United States Government whose representatives we never get to see and who NEVER have a desire to live amongst the people they allegedly represent. We want to exercise our natural desire to be warriors. To prove ourselves. When we fight for health care but we find corporations don't have faces. We never get to stand toe to toe with congressional members who continue to oppress us in this alleged great democracy. There is a force occupying our land but all we see are the people and can't fight the faceless government. Eventually, we look to each other, and sometimes try to beat each other emotionally, physically, or even kill one another in order to exercise our warrior side. I watch it happen at my work. I'm sure it happens in gangs. I'm sure it happens in many other organizations. I'm sure it is a pattern repeated throughout our world. You can't fight this force that oppresses us because you can't see its face, much easier to fight amongst ourselves.

That's not to say that it is like that at all times. It is just a pattern I've started paying attention to. I pray that we can use that energy to fight the system instead of each other. Can you imagine the work all the Indians killed in Tacoma in this last year (3 in one weekend I've heard, some 9 or 10 altogether) could be doing? Could you imagine the pain in the ass they could be to the occupational forces of the U.S. government on our land? And what of those living? There are many more still alive who could use that energy to be a pain in the ass to the occupational forces of the U.S. government. Many do!

Like TV is so much easier than using our own imagination, fighting amongst ourselves can be so much easier than fighting the big monster. Flip the switch back the other way. Let's change the world for the better.

Sometimes I like to wear bright colors to pray for that bright energy in my life.

All those little details, some or all have meaning. What does it mean that I get a large rip in the crotch of all of my black jeans at the same time?

"FLY! BE FREE!"

yeah...uhhhhhhh...yeah.

It is also said that when one looks their worst is usually when one finds love. If that's true, when I walk out the door to this great and glorious radio station known as KBOO, women will be chasing me down the street like in those old Beatles movies...pay no attention to the fact that they'll be carrying torches, pitch forks, and axes.

Friday, January 13, 2006

 

Book Release

On January 17th at 7pm, I will be having a book release/birthday party at the Red and Black Cafe, 2138 SE Division, Portland, Oregon. The title of the book is:

TREMBLE IN FEAR
BEFORE THE SOFT
PUDGY INDIAN
I hope to take people on a little journey. I will open the door, and when all are inside, I'll close the door and heat up the place. Kind of like going through a round of a sweat. Then I will open the door back up, and take you out with some of my new work.
Isaac Trimble will hopefully be bringing his flute and playing music for us as well. We've been playing phone and e-mail tag.
Books are $15.
You can find Red and Black Cafe at www.redandblackcafe.com.
May we have Revolution in our lifetime. May the human rights of one and all be honored. May we all live in peace for a Revolutionary change. LET'S TAKE IT ALL BACK!
P.S. I'll be 42.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

 

To Dance With the Wind

It was stormy as I walked across the Burnside Bridge yesterday.

I looked up at the dark cloudy sky to see a white bird flying around. I realized it was a seagull, and wondered how it could shine so white against the black, cloudy sky. It was the artificial lights. The artificial lights were making seagull shine against the dark and beautiful sky. Then there was a flock of them, floating on the windy sea. It must be great to be able to fly like that.

As I return my attention to the sidewalk I've been walking even as I gazed at the poetry of seagull shining white against a dark, stormy sky, I step beside the first building on the Eastside and there was a devolumizing of the noise level so quick as to startle me. I've been startled by loud noises many times, but from the normal everyday noises coming to a sudden stop (almost)...it's kind of funny.

Last night I lit copal and put it my bedroom window as I was about to sleep. The wind blew the smoke so hard into my window and through the gaps in my door as to worry my housemate that I may have started something on fire. But I looked at the smoke in my room through the candlelight and bathed in its beauty before I fell asleep.

Today, the wind is blowing so hard on the Bridge as to make me dance with it and my umbrella all the way across the bridge. I laugh and giggle all the way.

The river, she is beautiful. The rain connects us in this dance with the wind as well. I am blessed by the waters that return to her.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

 

Orleans...

I've been coming to the radio station for twelve or thirteen years, and wouldn't you know it, it wasn't until just a few minutes ago that I noticed that the name of the building above Grendel's, which is across Burnside, is called "Orleans."

I sat up all night with a wonderful group of my fellow human beings. It was a good celebration. It was a good prayer. I rode back and forth with my friend Cynthia. I realized the next morning, yesterday, my hat and gloves were not to be found in the bag I thought I had left them in. Yesterday, afterwork, I called Cynthia and found out before I could ask that I had left my hat and gloves in her truck. I had spent my walking commute without them to comfort me in the rain, not that the rain is really a discomfort to me, but I do like staying as dry and as warm as possible. They will probably be returned to me tomorrow.

Riding home on the bus yesterday, I noticed this one man in a suit. I see him almost everytime I ride the bus during the week. White men in suits make me uncomfortable, and he sits right in front of me. I take off my backpack and scarf, and set them at my feet. I lay my head against the window and half sleep. I wait for the bus to go over the speed bumps on 35th. I keep waiting for the twists and turns through Multnomah Village and Garden Home Rd. I raise my head and notice that the bus is turning onto Oleson Rd., three stops past mine. "OH SHIT!" I yell out and pull the cord, grab my pack, and hope it doesn't get too wet during the walk home. I realize as I walk through the parking lot of the DQ, that I left my scarf on the bus. "Fuck!" I say outloud, and realize I may never see it again. It was a gift from my housemate and friend, Heidi, so I was upset that it was now gone. But I had the funny feeling it wasn't. Statistics and practicality, however, dictated otherwise.

I get on the bus this morning, head for my usual back passengerside back corner seat, when I notice that across the row if seats is the white guy in a suit in the other corner. Before I sit, he asks, "did you leave your scarf on the bus yesterday?"

"Yes!" is said, getting excited.

"Is this it?" he asks, holding up a plastic bag with my scarf in it.

"Yes! Oh wow! Thank you," I say. I sit down, get comfortable, and wrap the scarf around my neck. I thank the white guy in a suit many times and imagine him with long hair, a tan, a beard and mustache, and lots of tie dye. It's possible.

Sometimes details mean something. What does it mean losing my favorite trio, hat, gloves, and scarf, and then them coming back to me? What does it mean that it was with my friend I lost my hat and gloves? What does it mean that I lost my scarf and a white man in a suit, none the less, returns it to me in the morning? What does it mean to them? It seems like a detail that should be paid attention to, but maybe it means nothing.

Many good blessings to all of you!

Friday, January 06, 2006

 

Dances, Ancient and New

At the bus stop this morning
it is another dark and beautiful and rainy day.

I look down at the rain laying or moving
on the surface of the asphalt.
I see a golden orb created from a beautiful dance
being done by the street lamp above
and the rain and asphalt surface at my feet.
I realize it is the sun
and all around its golden beauty,
with every raindrop that hits
the rain covered asphalt
a sparkly little dance is done
and it looks like performance art.
The sun with its sparkly rays
created by nature and artificial light.

I cross over the Wiallamette River
like I do most weekday mornings.
The river, she is teasing me.
The rain dancing on her surface
through the artificial lights.
It is like jewelry.
It is like she has put on make up
and is dancing around
in her special beauty.
I laugh and think about this modern dance.
She laughs back at me
and tells me she has been doing this kind of dance
for many more years than I know.
Long before the white man,
Long before the Indian.
She danced with the moon and stars,
She danced with the sun.
She danced with the trees and plants,
She danced with animals birds and fish.
She danced at night.
She danced during the day.
She danced in storms.
She danced in earthquakes.
She has always danced.
She tells me she is still dancing.
She is still singing her songs,
ancient and beautiful,
warm and caring.
Calling and teasing and loving.
She has for centuries,
long before the white man,
long before the red man,
and she still does.
She still dances with all that surrounds her.
She dances with me.
We laugh and sing songs,
Whisper secrets in each others ears.

She told me once
that I was the only one that makes offerings to her.
That made me so sad.
She is so beautiful and wonderful and helpful and caring.
This morning,
as I completed my journey from west to east on the southside sidewalk,
she whispered to me
that I am no longer the only one.
That there are many.
That made me so happy.

Wanna dance?

Thursday, January 05, 2006

 

Red and White

Ever walk across a bridge
over a free way
when it's dark outside.
Red is going,
white is coming,
red is going,
white is coming.

At the Bridge of the Gods,
there is a mural painted
on one of the columns
that holds the toll bridge
into the sky.
It's base of support.
The mural is of Lewis and Clark
bigger than life.
The token Indian
supporting actress,
Sacajawea
in tow.
The other Indians,
mostly naked
before the superior
clothed white men,
are seen scampering up a hill
on the other side of the river.
Their figures are small enough
to only be extras
on the set of the great white men
known as Lewis and Clark.

Have you ever crossed a bridge
over a freeway
when it is dark outside.
Red is going,
white is coming,
red is going,
white is coming.

 

Rape Culture

We all know that at anytime, it is possible that the U.S. government or their branches thereof, can send people into our house and violate us. It is a commonly accepted fact, that should the government choose to, they could take away everything from us. We all know this. It is a commonly accepted fact. However, we also know that the likelyhood of that actually happening is very minimal...for now. We all live in some level of fear, or this knowledge one way or another effects our behavior throughout our days. ...that is not freedom... Take that out of the equation. Take that feeling you have that your behaviors and actions could be dealt with by extreme force by the government you pay homage to. Take away however that makes you feel. Pretend it doesn't exist anymore, even for a moment. How does that make you feel? What do you want to do? I believe that it human nature to be kind to one another. I believe that the rape culture we currently have in place is MAN made. What is a culture like without the fear of rape in it's many forms? ...I want that. I know it can be achieved. I want to see what could happen in a world without penis driven patriarchy rape culture.

We will send our children off to murder or be murdered for the penis driven patriarchy known as democracy. People tell me how great democracy is. This is what democracy has done: it has and does commit genocide worldwide. It is founded on the genocide of Indians. It is founded on the enslavement of blacks. It is founded on the oppression of the Irish and Chinese. It is founded on the rape and eslavement of women. Look what democracy did for us, and many many more. We have to rethink everything, because, to be honest, democracy is only great if you are a wealthy white male, usually from certain families. That is how democracy behaves. Democracy sucks. We can make something better. I believe in you all. I know you can. We are all made of the same stuff as Malcolm X, Mother Jones, Winona Laduke, Orion Gray, Leigh Anne Kranz, Julie Sabatier, Martin Luther King, Jr., Crazy Horse, John Trudell, and many many more. It is within us. Find it. Look for it. Dust it off. Put it to some good use. We can win this Revolution. I know we can do it without bloodshed. They have bigger and better weapons and more of a willingness to kill. Defend yourself when necessary. But more than that, find that Crazy Horse or other hero within you because we are all made of the same stuff. Look for it. Dust it off. Put it to some good use. As Helen Caldicott might say; we were all born to save the world.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

 

Revolution

More than anything,
I want Revolution.
I'm tired of watching
my fellow human beings
killing our fellow human beings
for the wealth of a few white men.

What are we going to do, folks?
This system is
or will soon be
coming to an end.
Democracy hasn't done SHIT
for anybody
but wealthy white men.

Genocidal maniacs are running our country.

What are we going to do, folks?
What are we going to do?

I may never achieve any
of the goals that I would like
to see achieved,
but at least
I'm trying to do something.

What are we going to do?
What are we going to do?

My voice is for Revoltuion.

 

Cruelty

I was trying to actually relax on the bus today. I mean actually relax. I finally reached that state as brief and lovely as it was, and I realized, I feel tense all the fucking time. There is always something to be tense about.

Have you ever wondered
what it is
to let go of all that
which you carry with you
every moment?

Fear?
Is it fear that keeps us
carrying those things?
The end of the world
is so possible.
What am I doing about it?
None of it is easy.
It's easy to feel defeated.
It's easy to point my fingers at others
while others point fingers at me.
It is easy
to sit down
at TV
and medicate.
But,
what else are you going to do?
Play along?
Struggle the best way you know how?
Watch TV?
Medicate?

I hold nothing against those
who do not struggle.
I did not struggle
at one time.
Those who do not struggle
for the common good
will sooner or later
find themselves
having to.
Why wait?
We need you on this side of the Revolution.

And please...
Don't give me that
"Democracy is the solution,"
BULLSHIT!
Look what democracy did and does for indians.
Look what it does for blacks.
Look what it does for hispanics.
Look what it does for healthcare.
Look what it does for the homeless.
Look what it does for the working class.
Look what it does for the arabs.
etc., etc., etc., etc.
Democracy is not the solution.
Let's get creative
and create a world we want.
That means it will constantly be changing.
The rules of today
will not be the rules of tomorrow
or may have more rules added to them.
We are naturally in constant flux.
What the fuck do we need to kill each other for?
Why are we immeasurably cruel to each other?
I don't get it.
Eh...I'll just keep trudging along
with the goal in mind
of getting the human rights of one and all
honored
which already includes
no more war.
No war
is a human right.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

 

"The Hair..."

"The hair," she said,
motioning to the back of her head.

It's always the hair.
What the fuck is it with my hair.
I'm a fat, flat assed Indian with long hair.
Big fucking deal.
I'm not particularly attractive.
I'm no Italian model on the cover
of a romance novel.
I'm NOT particularly attractive.

But she wanted to see my hair
in a braid.

She is attractive.
Petite, dirty blonde, looks great in a mini-skirt.
What the fuck does she see in me?
Why can't she leave me alone?
I have enough bullets to dodge
at home.

I didn't want to do it,
but the wife told me
"we need this job."
So I gave into racism,
and lost my soul.
Never had I felt so destroyed
as I did
at that moment
on the back deck of our house
with our friends
with nature
with the Tualatin River in our backyard,
my soul was stolen.
I had to give into racism
to dodge the bullets coming my way
at home.

I forced the issue
they had to write up a policy
so everyone had to wear a braid.
If the bosses wife
who was also my boss
wanted to see this fat,
flat assed Indian in a braid,
damned well all long hairs at the place
were going to be forced to wear braids.
That's how they lost their best
white man
employee.

The first day,
it was weird.
She was standing on the dock.
She never stands on the dock.
The dock
had only been a place
to walk across as she headed to her office
or as she walked from the building
to smoke a cigarette
on the sidewalk.
It was not a place
where she had ever hung out
in the last 10 months that I had worked there.
But she was waiting
and watching me...
I could see her out of the side of my eye
and she watched...
and waited.
I kept her in my peripheral vision
so she couldn't see it,
but she moved...
she moved to a position behind me
and I turned my head enough
to see her staring at me.
Why me?
I'm not particularly attractive,
and I have enough bullets to dodge at home.

If I was single,
I probably still wouldn't have taken the chance.
Boss man probably knew people
who would kill me
for fucking his wife,
but there isn't a whole lot of possibilities
of hooking up with her that way
anyway.
Why me?
There are a lot better looking guys
working on the dock.
"The hair..."
I'll never forget her words.
"The hair.
You have to wear your hair
in a braid."
"The hair."

She wore mini-skirts
to show off her fine legs
and she hung out on the dock
for the next two weeks
as I worked.
Almost everytime
I was on the dock
she would be present
in a mini-skirt,
which she didn't wear all the time
but suddenly was wearing everyday.
Her tight clothes
outlining her fine body.
But this was just too weird.
Harmless fun flirtation
is more my style.
Not somebody who wants to see my hair in a braid
and starts wearing a mini-skirt
around me
everytime I'm working.

After putting out the word
of my discomfort
to my fellow employees,
her behavior finally stopped.
No other words had been exchanged between us
other than her
telling me
I had to wear my hair
in a braid.

It would have been easier to handle
had I not so many bullets
to dodge daily
at home.
Maybe,
I could have even had some fun,
and turned it
into harmless flirtation,
and ended my discomfort
from this odd type of
sexual harrassment.
I didn't understand.
There are much better looking men
that I work with,
and I am not particularly attractive.
"The hair..."

But this is not a poem
about this odd interaction
between my former bosses wife
and I.
This is not a poem
about how unattractive
I believe I am.
This is not a poem
about my hair.
This is a poem
about a woman
who found me attractive enough
to behave in such a manner
toward me.
This is a poem
about a man
someone found
attractive enough
to behave in such a manner.
This is a poem
about a woman
who told me
I had to give into racism.
This is a poem
about a man
who in finding his soul
destroyed by giving into
something
I had fought against
my whole life.

This is a poem
about a man
who found
at that moment
of the destruction
of his soul
discovered the power within
to leave the firing range
and eventually
get out of the way
of all the bullets
heading my way.
For in my destruction,
I found myself reborn,
and now live a life
much more conducive
to happiness
as going home everyday
after work
to dodge bullets.

My bosses wife
lead me down that path,
and although I don't condone her behavior
toward me
for those brief
few weeks,
I thank her
for giving me that gift
that lead me to the strength
to leave the firing range
I found myself on
every day when I went home.

Thank you
my bosses wife
for the gift
you may never know
you gave me.

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