Wounded Knee--December 29 1890


The icy wind blows through the trees
The Lakota tribe brought to its knees
Red stained snow marks the shame
No one left to take the blame
History of a settlement marked in blood
Euphemized for the common good
In all of time the land defiled
with the spilled blood of a native child
In Washington the politicians sleep
But I know why the willow trees weep

Often, we masquerade behind words without weight
Words that coldly costume our minds, but rob our warmth
I know you’ve euphemized, for me, speech forged in hate
Just as my mouth belies each loving thought I form

When burdened, your mask slips to lay bare hidden eyes
Eyes flatly calm, though agleam with muted malice
While I’m a hypocrite to disclose webs and lies
Still, our beloved ones should not act at loving us

My rarest friend, please, know that to my heart you’re near
And the sword you have carried is a pointless one
For I fall on my own, year after wounded year
I chastise on behalf of all when day is done

So, if the veil grows too heavy, then let it fall
Your shrewdly made disguise does not relieve my pain
The truth can never cut like secrets, after all
There are furtive daggers in the smiles you have feigned

We are all alone, and I, in suit, am alone
And I’m still not sure where life’s path will lead, my friend
Maybe to a lover or child with to atone
Someone real whose hand I’ll hold in my story’s end

See the defiance, feel the chains.
Extricate with every motion and devour the lies,
Promising an absolute freedom; nothing is absolute.
Dangle from a cliff, feel the taste of death on your tongue.

Proximity matters when the matter is about death and life.
Longevity feels strenous while death feels fine.
They bound you up into chains and dangle you from life;
A blemish way forgotten and euphemized

Recall back to the moments of freedom, Have you seen it framed?
Have you seen it meandered from digression?
Recall, recall,recall and rewind back.

Quaff the massacre,push the lump down. Feel it drip down into your system;
Then suddenly,you don’t have the guts!
Hear the dead; hear the truth.

They call me *****,
Ching chong expecting me to sing along to the bing bongs of Christmas.
Christening myself into white culture.
As they tried the ***** and native American,
Now Asian.

They call me a *****,
a man with tools.
Shovel, pick axe, and hammer.
Digging for gold but also watching my head,
For the white man’s jealous, silver bullet.

They call me *****,
a man with dignity in another’s land.
With metal and not a whip in my hands.
Building a future for them,
Model minority for them alone.

They call me *****,
Silent, physically weak, and emasculated,
but silenced in a country that is meek and of no value,
Where the colors red, white, and blue mean more than your color,
(Where) God Bless(es) the United States of America.

Maybe I am a *****,
Crawling in mud and sleeping with pigs,
A Feminine man finding strength in gambling,
Drinking liquor looking red,
Chinks ******* white animals for fetish,
Fool to English when although they cannot speak more than English themselves.
Yes, English, a borrowed language they call their own.
To slur relentlessly with a white hood of superiority.
I see no future without fury from my culture,
Hated and euphemized without limitation,
Hath hell come down on them now.

Still I am a *****,
With a face yellow and a soul chicken,
Clucking around with little thought or agenda,
for the white people and only the white people,
alongside the negroes and native Americans.

Hurt by this country but never broken.