The echos are burning through the valley at dawn.
The voices are muffled but seep out through the calm.
They are asking for forgiveness they beg for a change.
They wonder if we will take them from the weight of the blame.

Who are you deceivers, from where do you hail?
Why did your creator build you to fail?

The voices speak of rebellion that creeps in the night.
Who will bound through the darkness and burst in to the light.
The bringers of disease, talkers of fame.
They beat us to submission in the dirt of the plains.

The savages you are that hail from the earth.
Created form dust, molded in dirt.

The master speaks of the bridges he's burnt from the streams.
Ignited by torches who were ripped from the trees.
The builder of fires, the polluter of dreams.
The layers of waste are bursting from the seams.

Retreat to the darkness, and be banished from earth.
Leave it all in vain, your birth was a curse.

The moon returns again rising through the sky in the night.
Reflecting its azure light in to the eyes of the flies in flight.
Take us now to shelter, remove us from this vice.
On the painful journey away from this sacrifice.

The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,

the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,

now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,

ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,

I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,

a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,

watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,

in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,

but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,

but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

speech on mercy
sleeping in New Jersey
or maybe
Chelsea
reading peace verses
no natives, no war
no nurses
dictating democracy
how sweet
thanks to the geography

I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.

Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.

Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.

I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.

In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.

But pow-wows in South Dakota were
*****, dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.

I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.

Mrs. Wolfe sat, confused and angry
That Charlie is being sent home.
Suspended for three days.
They refused the in-school community work
For reparation. She preferred the healing circle.
In frustration, she alluded to me being racist.
But I'm Native.
She was exposed. Bewildered and befuddled.
I was born naked, lived clothed, and will die broken.
I am a member of the Tribe.
Contribute to the Band.
I keep the beat, smudge, dance, good at archery,
Can't spear fish, but buy cheap smokes.
My group calls me Fran Dog,
But Proinsias is my native name.
Then came the critical error:
You don't look Native.
Ah, but I am. And you sound racist.
I am native Irish. From Cavan.
I asked for them to leave the door open.

Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.

The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.

These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.

There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.

The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.

This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.

What are we teaching?
Who are we reaching?
What have we taught today?
Buy him a toy gun
Looks like a real one
Who have they fought at play?

Cowboys and Indians
Act like the real ones
At least like we saw on TV.
Cowboys the good guys,
Indians the bad guys.
Perfect authenticity.

White folks meant no harm
Just came there to farm
Four thousand years of land.
They had no papers
Really invaders
Things just got out of hand.

A clash of two cultures
Then food for the vultures
Everyone thought they were right.
But in the long run
Law made decisions
All in favor of the whites.

Words were encouraged
Dignity disparaged
White people called them savage
Due no respecting
And fit for just killing
Then plenty of land they could ravage.

Textbooks got altered,
The ministry faltered;
Heathens deserve what they get.
Jesus cherished the meek
But whites turned no cheek.
They haven’t quite fixed things yet.

What are we teaching?
Who are we reaching?
What have we taught today?
Children play death games,
Who can we all blame?
Are there no other games to play?

Among the mountains and oceans we claimed,
Environments we no longer know,
Starvation from the knowledge lacked.
Strange men of unknown origin push us away
With feathered spears and their spirits
Flying above us like the angels we seek.

The spread of our culture like margarine
Angers the earth it's ancestors tread on;
War and thievery. Disease and infection
Was wildfire in a land containing no such
Immunities to the harshness.

First cities died as infants, stillborns
Of history and freedom, yet
They survived in their determination.