Within this Frame of Gold. 1991.

Going, gorn and wasting

Everything.

Jealousy of nobody, but wearing all the wrong gear.

Clambering aimlessly toward a gaping sun in noisy abandon.

Slowly winding up the painted sky and screaming dreams of nothing.

Teeth and toes in constant turmoil, struggling with words, and sand, that stick, like saliva, to my soul.

Raining thunder and gold the open fire cackles.

Calling children and piling paper to throw away the chewed pencil ends of culture to the waiting bird, a preying,

Floating from the earth and carrying our limitations away to fester in the jaws of snails.

Bodies fumble, boneless, in the snake infested grass.

Sneezing quickly, gunning down the possibilities.

With the heads of tortoises they pulled in their hearts and listened only to their greed.

Trees wailed as the scar tissue grew and we picked up our spears and clubs for war.

In everyone there is an Indian, exhausted from the battle,

That screaming at the reptile skulls, ignored and angry,

will sit down and drown their own identity.

Heavy lids and worn out actions.

Golden winds and shimmering heat of winding, brick-like beating.

Mind and torso in clambering war dance.

Smelling of tannin and leaping in joy.

Rings and pockets full of envy

Green with jealousy and slow poison.

Why, when ships can pace an ocean, do the smiling reptiles seed to destroy that voting freedom?

Then plugging into mothering, feeling only sadness in the core of woven fabrics.

To be an Indian in this society,

True to cyclic winds and calling,

Slowly grimacing at this torture.

The spearing, grasping, destroying,

Within this frame of gold.

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