Pudgy Indian

Andrew Jackson came to my house
disguised as an insurance salesman.
He knocked on the door, but I wouldn't let him in,
so he started pounding on the door.
I got scared and hid
so he kicked in the door
chased me through the
bedroom, living room, dining room, kitchen
But he caught my children instead.

He sat them down at the table
showed them the insurance policy
where he was the sole beneficiary.
They didn't know what they were reading
so they refused to sign it.
Andy pulled a knife and cut their throats
and signed the document with their dead hands.

My wife screamed
when she saw the carnage,
so Andrew beat her and raped her.
While he was raping her
he murdered her
so that her last memories would be of her
dead children, cowardly husband, and being raped by him.

I escaped through a window
and started running down the street screaming
"SOMEBODY HELP!
ANDREW JACKSON IS MURDERING MY FAMILY!
ANDREW JACKSON IS MURDERING MY FAMILY!"

People emerged from their homes
stood on their porches and
laughed and pointed at me as I ran down the street.
In unison they all said,
"THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR EATING MEAT!"

And I stop running.
I drove a railroad spike into the asphalt
that reaches to the heart of our mother.
I tether a microphone cord to it.
I tether the middle of the cord
to my left foot.
I swing the microphone in big circles
like I'm Roger Daltry
four times
(because Indians do things like that)
ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR...
and throw it in the air
and catch it in my right hand.
I hold it to the sky
then slowly lower my arm
and place the microphone
...to...my...lips...

I hear the children screaming in my skull
because it is in my DNA
they cling to their dead parents
infants try to suckle at the breasts
of their dead mothers.
And the Cavalry is coming
to finish them off.

My sweetie has gathered
three purple trumpet blossoms from an empress tree
in the park
and placed them in a glass chalice
on our dining room table.
I lean in and inhale deeply
their sweet scent.

And I hear the screams of the women
because it is in my DNA
and they are clutching their murdered babies
and sitting next to their dead and dying husbands.
And the Cavalry is coming
to finish them off.

Irises are my favorite flower.
Two petals reaching to the sky
two petals reaching to the earth
delicate and complex innards
tempting creatures to their pollen.
I lean in and inhale deeply
their sweet scent.

And I hear the screams of the men
because it is in my DNA
as they fight, struggle, and die
trying to protect their families
in the chaos and confusion.
The survivors cry at their failure
and the Cavalry is coming
to finish them off.

There are huge azalea bushes
in Columbia park.
I had no idea that any of them had scents,
but I can smell them a mile away
as my sweetie tells me
that the lighter colored ones usually have a scent.
I lean in and inhale deeply
their sweet scent.

I hear the screams of the elders
because it is in my DNA
as they emerge from their homes
and observe the horrific carnage
enacted upon their people, families, and friends.
And the Cavalry is coming
to finish them off.

When the roses are blooming
I love walking through the streets of my neighborhood
because there are so many colors and varieties.
The reach to the heavens
with their soft petals and gentle folds.
I lean in and inhale deeply
their sweet scent.

I hear the war cries of the elders
and see them gather at the river
in all of their wisdom and glory.

I hear the war cries of the men
and see them gather at the river
in their strength and courage.

I hear the war cries of the women
and see them gather at the river
in their compassion and empathy.

I hear the war cries of the children
and the generations yet to come
as they too gather at the river
in all of their new and vibrant life.

I see my Blackfoot mother
who passed away playing bingo
and her braids are long
with black and gray
and her smile is Beautiful and she says,
"That's my boy."

I see my Alsea/Klickitat grandmother
Her hair black and gray and curly.
Her one good arm.
She is surrounded by the 40+ children
she raised as well as her own.
I only recognize a few.
And they are all smiling.
"I Love you, grandson," she tells me.

I see my Alsea/Klickitat/Lower Umpqua father
standing their with his thumbs in his belt loops
smiling his big beautiful smile.
"I'm proud of you, son," he says.

They all raise their right fists in the air
and scream their war cries
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
and then start to laugh.
We all laugh,
and our laughter recreates the world.

"OUR DAY HAS COME!" they scream in unison.
"OUR DAY HAS COME!"

I swing my microphone in big circles
like I'm Roger Daltry
four times
(because that's what Indians do)
ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR...
and I catch it in my right fist.
I hold it to the skies in a prayer to the
creator, earth mother, four directions
to the elders, men, women, children
and the future generations
to all of the people
and everything on this earth.
I slowly lower my arm
and put the microphone
...to...my...lips...

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
hahahahahahahaha
hehehe