Saturday, January 21, 2006
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.
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.
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