Thursday, January 20, 2011

The poor Indian who lives in the shanty house

Who loves a drink during the day, but is a pleasant drunk

Lives like an animal whose hunting methods can not be surmised.

Who is assumed to live off the sun.

Skimming some margin of substance from the vastness

That we can’t see a living to be made off of.

He comes from a time when two legged creatures crowded under the sun.

They put their inside lives into things such as wagons.

And they lived as if inside outside, against the outside.

Danger to them was from everywhere.

They were always filthy and they all sang the blues all their lives.

Gods of nature watched them from the hills

Like the sun, and they felt like the sun.

What is it in these indefatigable creatures

That made them want to win against us - and let them win.

This narrow wagon train in the valley, this ant line creeping

That belies eastern armies will spread and toil in the West

In slow agony. In filthy poverty.

To make something out of nothing to make nothing out of us.

Something that was once beautiful. Something

That was glorious by every definition of the word.

Something such as that which cannot exist.

That walked through the plains radiating masterfulness

Was not truly so to the force of nature that brought this great enemy upon us.

Was not truly so to this animal who cannot exist.

There is a particle of Myth contained in all our lives.