Them **** beasts
Hunt our cattle
Picking out the weak.
Go get your rifle, son.
Go fetch your boots.
Those *******
Look best skinned
And ******
Across the bed
Of this old truck.

I nod along with them.
I plod along with them to get the guns;
Isn't this necessary,
After all?

But inside my soul
I feel a dark night spreading
No, not sinister
But sweet.
The stars above like scattered drifts
Of snow spilled in the wind and crunching under
Loping feet.


And I am standing on a narrow ridge
And listening.
Hidden like some ephemeral thing,
Like sweetgrass burning in the wind;
Listening.

And I can feel them rising.
I can hear them crying,
A ghostly sobbing.
Falling on my knees
I call them.

To the draw they run!
Run!
Like so many mothers clutch their young
And all the warriors toss their guns
And still the cavalry descends,
Run!

Across the creek and trailing blood, she runs.
Singing her howling song, she runs.
Howling her death song, she runs.  

And in one last act of desperation falls.

I see them drag her carcass up the draw.

And in the truck, they’re laughing,
Humming, slapping knees, and spitting,
Like some celebratory release.  

In my head, a single phrase:
Them **** beasts.

Parading through these beautiful Hills..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like,  well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men..   whose tattered boots
   you are unworthy, of even tying..

Traipsing across the Badlands--
your long  red hair, flowing..
giving off a stance, (as if)..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men.. in tattered boots
   that you are unworthy, of even tying..

Raining down havoc,  on the Beautiful People
simply for their having  within them ;;
  
Faith:
In the Great Father.. and Substance of Spirit;
Neither of which your cowardly Egostroke
will ever garner,  or ascertain..

But oh, you could steal..

And pilfer..
And destroy.

You will pay, oh General *******-boy
Your long, curly locks..
will take on a whole new color,  red
There will be a gathering..
A showdown..

A Holy Reckoning--
In that Montana field,  between the Hills
Along the Little Bighorn..

The River of all Beaten-Down  one's, dreams

prairiegrass dreams

Across the Sandhills
wading into the untamed Niobrara
barebacked.. brown,  and beautiful

Within her Misty Mountain dreams
she is heading my way.
Ah, sweet lord God almighty,
look at her go..

Westbound,  she is best-found

    right there..  on the edge
    of these dreams of my own

Oh my lord..
look at that beautiful horsedream  go
Will I be able to survive her..

  I don't know
.  .  .  

You feel him..  don't you, sweet one..
my beautiful Snickers
on that Gordon, Nebraska hill--
his home,  his birthplace..

Until his beautiful spirit
one day..  finally found me

Striated and stoic
he is waiting for you..
To bring, you
the rest of the way home.

North now,  into Dakota
as you bleed  
with the Lakhóta
on a trail,  split

   between Pine Ridge..
   and Wounded Knee.

Feel your war-torn  Spirit
melt  in to them
(you will not fall)

As you ride this black-maned  dream
just a bit further North..
towards a man, named Paul

Within my own,  I can feel you both

Ah hell, babe..
I can feel you all