What It Sounds Like
a song for you to sing
squalid grease-grimed spots
yellow cardboard covered bulbs
and splattered like that
splattered like fly-blown meat
scattered across a tundra velvet
where people sit around a table
carved from ancient-stained ivory;
femurs dug up from dust-bowl
burial grounds
some of them are dressed in tan and argyle socks
properly shined etons whistling dixie
as they assume the habits of their erstwhile foes
some of them are dressed in tan and argyle socks
properly cured moccasins and neatly parted hair
split like a rabbit’s lip or whatever passes for “tribal”
with these people who assume the habits of their erstwhile foes
glad-handing and rolling over
smiling like a beat rez dog
all curled lips and shrunken backs
tails stuck up their own shriveled cracks
as if they like to be reamed that way
these well-dressed gut-skinned squalid ones
struck in a way
no food in cupboards
no money in bank
no car in garage
no garage
can’t be pitied
struck by sparsely formed thoughts
and inbred hatred
turning on their other eyes
like sandpaper
abrading
they talk like white men
not in the way they pronounce their words,
not that,
but in the way they form their words
sentences built with whips
and gallows lynch mob mutterings
and stretched head skin trophies
and what it sounds like
that sound of a scalp
on its way to collect bounty
and if there is any
the sound of an indian
selling blood for a benz and bally shoes
armani suits and money made
from bones of children
songs of ancestors
they talk like whitemen
not because of the way
they pronounce their words
but how they form sentences
sentences crammed with sounds
like prairie screaming brittle wind
and shattered jesus christmas bulbs
leaving shards of red and yellow
red and yellow splintered dance
grandmother says it’s where you keep
your songs of freedom
beating strong, beating strong
grandmother speaks with lightning eyes
and thunder tongue that rolls along
what sound is like when grandmother speaks:
hooves that echo hold the beat
hold the beat of skin-drum songs
makes me think:
a mind like water
roaring through the trees
or getting slashed
by willow whips
taking strips
and leaving furrowed fields
that sprout the sounds
that sound like this:
I wasn’t a savage until you made me one
I wasn’t a slave until you bought me
I wasn’t a prisoner until you jailed me
I wasn’t an artifact until you sold me
And I will never roll over.
squalid grease-grimed spots
yellow cardboard covered bulbs
and splattered like that
splattered like fly-blown meat
scattered across a tundra velvet
where people sit around a table
carved from ancient-stained ivory;
femurs dug up from dust-bowl
burial grounds
some of them are dressed in tan and argyle socks
properly shined etons whistling dixie
as they assume the habits of their erstwhile foes
some of them are dressed in tan and argyle socks
properly cured moccasins and neatly parted hair
split like a rabbit’s lip or whatever passes for “tribal”
with these people who assume the habits of their erstwhile foes
glad-handing and rolling over
smiling like a beat rez dog
all curled lips and shrunken backs
tails stuck up their own shriveled cracks
as if they like to be reamed that way
these well-dressed gut-skinned squalid ones
struck in a way
no food in cupboards
no money in bank
no car in garage
no garage
can’t be pitied
struck by sparsely formed thoughts
and inbred hatred
turning on their other eyes
like sandpaper
abrading
they talk like white men
not in the way they pronounce their words,
not that,
but in the way they form their words
sentences built with whips
and gallows lynch mob mutterings
and stretched head skin trophies
and what it sounds like
that sound of a scalp
on its way to collect bounty
and if there is any
the sound of an indian
selling blood for a benz and bally shoes
armani suits and money made
from bones of children
songs of ancestors
they talk like whitemen
not because of the way
they pronounce their words
but how they form sentences
sentences crammed with sounds
like prairie screaming brittle wind
and shattered jesus christmas bulbs
leaving shards of red and yellow
red and yellow splintered dance
grandmother says it’s where you keep
your songs of freedom
beating strong, beating strong
grandmother speaks with lightning eyes
and thunder tongue that rolls along
what sound is like when grandmother speaks:
hooves that echo hold the beat
hold the beat of skin-drum songs
makes me think:
a mind like water
roaring through the trees
or getting slashed
by willow whips
taking strips
and leaving furrowed fields
that sprout the sounds
that sound like this:
I wasn’t a savage until you made me one
I wasn’t a slave until you bought me
I wasn’t a prisoner until you jailed me
I wasn’t an artifact until you sold me
And I will never roll over.