LUKE WARM WATER
The Lakota poet known as Luke Warm Water has featured at poetry venues throughout the United States and in Europe, and has won Poetry Slam competitions fromOregon to Germany. Luke was the first spoken-word poet to receive an Archibald Bush Foundation individual artist fellowship in literature and was a featured poet at the Geraldine R. Dodge 12th Biennial Poetry Festival. His poetry appears in the book Shedding Skins: Four Sioux Poets (Michigan State University Press).
Collecting Medicine
“Run to the hills, run for your life” – Iron Maiden
Back in ’95 right arm extended
one hand steering wheel driving
my ’75 Rez Cadillac El Dorado
on the summer high plains
gathering afternoon sun blue sky
on my left forearm relaxing
on my open window drivers door sill
long flowing hair in the dust heat wind
thick shades on
beat-up baseball hat low to the brow
cig dangling from my thin Sioux lips
like a cool guy
tooling around Grand Forks, ND
for no particular reason
sometimes I just loved taking
my dinosaur pony metal beast out
on a sunny day
suddenly this time and moment
thinking of my ancestors
in no particular way
turning a city corner
from a traffic busy street
a small rock jumped through
my open moon roof
into the pocket of my shirt
The stone was lost long ago
but not its torque meaning
as my power plant grinded away
piston rods knocking
just before its own death
in a 400 cubic inch engine block
pavement crushing machine
Morning Ghetto Oakland Pow-Wow
Parking street doors locked
double check locks
my office job is in the ‘hood
walking a couple of blocks
into work 9 A.M.
SUV tricked drives by
glides into a red light stop
Black power bass speakers thumping
rolling a rhythmic drum
felt through flesh
hot weather already Paleteros (Popsicle)
push cart Mexicano vendor
row of bells on the handle
ringing in my ear jingling
as he strolls through intersection
of Fruitvale & International
Combination of thumping bass
and ringing bells
stop me on the sidewalk
shut my eyes
stop walking for a moment
inhale deep the inner city
my brain rewinds images of
Pahin sinte Wacipi (Porcupine Pow-Wow)
back in the day almost lost
I can still recall the images
of a young Pine Ridge woman
jingle dress dancer
her dance is healing
with raised hand
on the honor beats
of a thunderous Lakota drum
The SUV and vendor sounds
disappear with distance
I open my eyes
and continue walking into work
the mourning city is complete
Respects Nothing
My tahanshi (cousin)
kept saying every
time he drank
“Ever since they
found gold and opened
mines, those veins
reach to the core
of the earth”
my brother and I
would nod in disdain
of silent agreement
tahanshi would add
“and we will give
something back too
for the white man
in our sacred
Black Hills (He Sapa)”
And so we did
cousins, brothers, nephews
uncles, friends
friends of friends
gave back
at the bottom of lakes
in camp fires and creeks
on rock tops
under dried pine needles
along roadside ditches
and flowered meadows
until our aluminum
Budweiser can
offerings reached
into sky
to the very core
of heaven itself
and there was
nothing
poetic about it
ONE FOR JACK HIRSCHAMN
Poet laureate of San Francisco
such an accent
such an ugliness
you’re beautiful
after the Sacramento reading
apologized that I
drank up the cover
charge, across
the street bar
not hearing a sound
of his decibel poet words
he smiled and chortled
by this news
asked my tribe
mumbled he understood
of Wovoka
and something else
intangible on my
smiling ear
Jack the rock star
after his feature
into the night
into the night
sidewalk café crowd
of wannabe men
and the fine aged
women of ready
open legs
longing inspiration
as for me
i toil in the gutter
searching new words
without necessary
meaning or thrust
panting alone
on my keyboard
Specialized
I sold my bicycle
last week
over the air
it felt sucking
on my sentimentality
like the time
the tow truck
hauled my '75
Cadillac Eldorado
away back in '96
for 50 dollars scrap
in Oklahoma
this is Oakland
an unbridled city
I kid myself
of becoming
a minimalist
to trick my heart
of things of metal
and flesh
let go
A Lakota Painted Horse Merry-Go-Round
My young daughter
begins to understand
what it is meant to be
Indian in the big city
she knows Inter-tribal
dance at the PowWow
walking and tapping our
feet to the drum
in our street clothes
she smiles at the children
in full traditional regalia
I ask her if she wants one
and to dance with shawl
twirl in beauty
she smiles big and nods
enthusiastically
She knows Indian horses
from the Lakota artists
paintings on my wall
and in books
she loves the carousels
Tillman Park in Berkeley
Fairyland in Oakland
Golden Gate Park in the city
after riding the latter
yesterday
I ask if it would be fun
to have all the
animals painted like Indian
horses
she smiles big and nods
enthusiastically
THREAD
“He could feel it inside his skull – the tension of little threads
being pulled and how it was with tangled things, things tied
together, and as he tried to pull them apart and rewind them
into their places, they snagged and tangled even more.”
—from Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko
a couple decades and more ago
i was a good looking man
long raven hair
snake eyes in a maybe kind way
an athletes body from hard labor jobs
taut brown skin still soft to the touch
the energy and libido of a horse
i'm only saying these things
not because i was handsome
back then
but because i no longer look or feel like that now
fat, older than i look for my age
the energy and libido of a horse
i'm only saying these things
not because i was handsome
back then
but because i no longer look or feel like that now
fat, older than i look for my age
gray coarse receding hairline
and the pain beginning to be felt
with the inside parts
no thanks to the cigs and drink
with the inside parts
no thanks to the cigs and drink
from the howling days of the stampede
and now the knees hurt
neck, lower back, even my right toe
and now the knees hurt
neck, lower back, even my right toe
all early arthritic
pitiful mangy coyote
pitiful mangy coyote
trust me
i'm not saying these things because of vanity
or in trying to recapture my youth
hell no
its because i know
i'm not saying these things because of vanity
or in trying to recapture my youth
hell no
its because i know
what’s coming
cannot be stopped
as a young boy sitting with my mother
at the kitchen table, crying with her
i have blocked those memories out
sad things we had to endure
will not go into all those details here
don't get me wrong
i laughed a lot as a kid, a teenager
my mother loved to laugh too
though sometimes
as a young boy sitting with my mother
at the kitchen table, crying with her
i have blocked those memories out
sad things we had to endure
will not go into all those details here
don't get me wrong
i laughed a lot as a kid, a teenager
my mother loved to laugh too
though sometimes
we would get in a place
of sadness and pain
due to father’s issues
we all felt it, all us kids
my mother had a couple episodes
where she took a bottle of pills
of sadness and pain
due to father’s issues
we all felt it, all us kids
my mother had a couple episodes
where she took a bottle of pills
all at once
maybe it was the only way
to try and scare my dad
to try and make him just be nice
maybe it was the only way
to try and scare my dad
to try and make him just be nice
i was 19 when the hepatitis took her
along with pieces of all us kids
we replaced her with destructive coping
alcohol, cigarettes, soft drugs, hard drugs, overeating
and anger
we each picked therapy from this list
maybe her death hit me hardest
along with pieces of all us kids
we replaced her with destructive coping
alcohol, cigarettes, soft drugs, hard drugs, overeating
and anger
we each picked therapy from this list
maybe her death hit me hardest
somehow when you are caught
between being a boy and a man
losing the most important person
messes up the spirit
so at 43 i have finally arrived
at my mid life crisis
this is good as it gets
i've lost certain things
from my youth
can no longer cry out loud
no longer laugh so quick
so loud
my humor is dark and jaded
wishing to cook my mother’s recipes
they were lost with her
she, like all our grandmothers
made everything from scratch
between being a boy and a man
losing the most important person
messes up the spirit
so at 43 i have finally arrived
at my mid life crisis
this is good as it gets
i've lost certain things
from my youth
can no longer cry out loud
no longer laugh so quick
so loud
my humor is dark and jaded
wishing to cook my mother’s recipes
they were lost with her
she, like all our grandmothers
made everything from scratch
a lost art across this country
my only child, my
my only child, my
2 year old daughter reminds me
of my mother
in many ways
her smile and laughter
the easy nature
her quickness to caring
as she picks up on my depression
rubs my back or chest
hugs me
tries to make me laugh
she saves me
i see a side of my dad in me
it scares hell out of me
it’s the arguing and loudness with her mother
my daughter understands already
will she ever forgive me that i have to leave
will she ever forgive me if i stay
and withdraw in the silence
weight of consequential decisions
abound and tear at me
my daughter looks
of my mother
in many ways
her smile and laughter
the easy nature
her quickness to caring
as she picks up on my depression
rubs my back or chest
hugs me
tries to make me laugh
she saves me
i see a side of my dad in me
it scares hell out of me
it’s the arguing and loudness with her mother
my daughter understands already
will she ever forgive me that i have to leave
will she ever forgive me if i stay
and withdraw in the silence
weight of consequential decisions
abound and tear at me
my daughter looks
at photo album pictures
from when i was a boy
from when i was a boy
my mother, my siblings
aunts, uncles, grandparents
she studies the old photos
closely
points gently at certain persons
aunts, uncles, grandparents
she studies the old photos
closely
points gently at certain persons
no one she’s ever met
leans in for a closer look
and is silent as she does this
some pictures interest her not
and she flips the page
others she marvels at
perhaps recognizing herself
in the endless thread of generations
and is silent as she does this
some pictures interest her not
and she flips the page
others she marvels at
perhaps recognizing herself
in the endless thread of generations
