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Kore 15h
redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin
redskin redskindian        indian  redskin redskin redskin redskin
worthlessredskinscalpingbitchfeatherordot redredredred indian
redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin
Kore 6d
it's easy
     the hatred
of Me.

until I cease
          to blend

and what has
        been lying
in wait
Ken Pepiton Nov 7
so. so rare. such as you who seek some thing everyone knows
so you may share it with those infected with denial.


I'll be the fool who risks belief and go on with the story flowing from my belly
my very augmented eyes

Wisdom is justified of her children,
said the only ****** I ever met, a nubian
named John Joyce. No relation to James.

Same general era, I met Adam Funmaker. He showed me
an article in Rolling Stone that mentioned me
June 7, 1973, idea of me, not me,

that was me. the guy with ears that weren't garbage cans,
which had been the liturgical reply to
words deemed too filthy to say or hear,

To this day I don't care for the taste.

This story fiber began with Adam Funmaker being real, and my feeling many folk would never allow a man with such a name to have been,

much less to have been, my friend. who made my silver wedding ring.

A real man, father of many sons and daughters, still
with us
to this day,
This telling
dedicated in my lodge, my strong tower, my kiva,

To Adam Funmaker, I fan this cloud, be magnified magi.
From my desert you blessed with more than water.

A humbler man I've never met. A scrimshaw artist of great renown among collectors of such, for his technique.
It seemed magic, the photo-realism
he could attain to,
pins and hand and ink and string and light, his only tools,

the light was modified to meet the needs of Adam's ageing eyes
He was sixty-two when I thought with him last,

and sixty-two was older then than now,
he used to ask me questions I had not asked myself.

I only knew him for the space
of a tick
with point of pin pricking
ivory,  ttttttttttttt ttttt ttt ttttttt tttt far more
than 300 dpi,
But magic was not allowed to be the reason for
the power of reality in his work.

How do you do this? I asked, from a state of ad-mire

Opaque projector.

Ah, secret, he coulda kept it and been thought
amazing, sender of men in search of hows
denied whys, but he didn't

he told me the trick, as if his hand and eye and mind
were taken for granted, acknowledged by being

right used before my unaugmented eyes.

His gift he had received and owned,
not a thing to boast about, like a boy.

He was looking at me, something I remember
this way, a point, a reflection in the eye
that made images of the ideas of men
seem in the wind I go on to claim as my inheritance.
That's the scene from here, much was different,
most likely.

Adam Funmaker's clansmen from the past
breathed, nearly, their blessing, the hope

on ivory etched so nearly fractally real you can see
a reflection in Sitting Bull's eye staring

at a 440 stainless steel, razor-edged blade, never used.

A knife made for the image on the handle,
A magic Adam Funmaker portrait of a noble illiterate
chief among noble illiterates whose stories
have been told ten thousand years.

The Greeks fears were warranted.
Writing did shorten memories.
But it gave stories freedom to wend and find points

upon which they be told, to this day,
for no real reason, same as sunsets and beauty in general.

the knife I was looking at is depicted on the web
My wife still has her wedding ring, I lost mine,
in the desert or the storm or the fire, I can't remember losing it.
I never wrote an ode. This feels like how they may have wonce been taught when memories were the realm of story and songs
Kore Nov 6
if i hear
one more
speak the word

                          I n d i a n

I will
"I'm only saying it because that's what the text says" my ***
AD Mullin Aug 24
/                        been                       \
/                      thoughts                    \
|                           my                           |
|                         have                          |
|                  LANGUAGE                  |
|                           my                           |
|                            by                            |
|                 INFLUENCED                 |
|                              is                             |
|                            feel                            |
|                              or                              |
|                              do                              |
|                              or                              |
|                            want                            |
|                              or                              |
|                              say                             |
|                                i                                |
|                             that                             |
/                     EVERYTHING                     \
/                                   if                                   \

^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                                ^
| language instructs | the way we think |
^                                   ^                          ­      ^
^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                          ­      ^
have, have knot . .. ... .. . untie
TED Says: https://bit.ly/2LW2vPX
Kore Sep 16
redskin, cheekbones, upturned eyes
you call me names, pick apart my features
there's much for you to analyze

none of it good enough
even as you slit my belly and take my skin
you think me rough

wearing me like a hood you become
Pocahontas, Matoaka, Indian Princess
you think the thrum of your blood is the sound of a drum

you consume me, trick yourself
Redskin Princess
it's almost halloween and i'm already tired of pocahontas cosplayers
Kathleen Aug 6
Look at her,
she's remembering when she was native,
when she was Spain,
when she was Mexico
There she is now,
fondly thinking of her future;
the one where she falls into the sea.
A breathe of words ― 
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts

In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed

A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,  
perpetuity gleaned
and garnered
on fruit cellar shelves

Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings;
magic beans
in a mason jar

    Life’s native seeds gathered ―
organic building blocks
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold

Jesse e Stillwater
09  May  2018
saving native seeds
sowing continuum
fostering one love
reaping the fruits
of perpetuity
Pseudonym Apr 18
Lost in thought
perhaps a bit overwrought
eyes devoided of life

A foreigner in such a foreign world
what was then known and accounted for
now remains unfamiliar and gone
courtesy of a cruel world
the she once called home
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