Pontiac's Speech To The White Man

from Language 

PONTIAC'S SPEECH TO THE WHITE MAN

Out of the blue sky, out of

the waters, out of the woods, of the deer,

the beaver the bush the bird flies, out

of my people the blood, out of

so many moons in this place a man

cannot count them, out of

grace with the Great Spirit who

gave us this land, you seek

to push us.

 

(At night, in my dreams,

already I smell you, I smell

your railroads, your sawmills,

my mother's hair burning in the forest, I

smell these things in my dreams,

I see that Chrysler plant you intend

over the graves of my people. You

cannot fool me! I am the

land you seek, I am the supple

bowing of the branches, I am the leaves,

waving a warning to my young men,

I have the strength

of all the roots in the forest

under me, the fox and the bear and the hawk and the badger

have given me their skills, all things and creatures

in the forest have given me what is theirs

for I have given them my spirit, I have, since

the Great Spirit first placed us here, I have

trod with respect and care over

my mother's flesh, over

this land.

 

All this! All this! All this!

 you will have to push out, you white men, you

weak pale-faced rum drinking cowards, you

who have not been able to manage

your own affairs in your own land, you

who come now to desecrate mine. Ahhh, this

is your last chance, you bastards,

get the fuck out NOW,

or forever be food for the wrath of the forest people.

(I know, in my dreams, I know your perverse

power, your guns and your

driven multitudes of paid and punished

warriors, and I know, in my dreams,

against you my branches may break,

my leaves may be burned, my fur

singed and bleeding in the bitter cold

of your ways, and my heart bleeds, my roots

squirm and heave with these apprehensions,

but I hear, in my dreams I hear

over the clamor of your Fords, over

the cries of your powdery women in

your department stores, over the

shriek of the mutilated forest itself, I hear

another tongue, my tongue

in another's mouth, in my dreams I hear

the triumph of my forest speech

in another time, and it says, it

screams with a vengeance

UP AGAINST THE WALL MOTHERFUCKERS!

Dave Sinclair 1968, in Detroit, land of the Ottawas and Wyandots

 

 The metallurgical analysis of the stone that

was my heart shows an alarming percentage

of silicon.

Silicon, as George would be the first to

tell you, is not a metal. It is present in

glass, glue and since glue is made from horses--living substance.

I love you. But as the iron clangs, the

glass, the glue, the living substance

(which, God knows, has been to as many

glue factories as it can remember)

muffles what the rest of the heart says.

I see you cowering in the corner and the

metal in my heart bangs. Too personal

The glass and glue in my heart reply. And

they are living substance.

You cannot bake glass in a pie or fry

glue in an omelette

"If I speak in the tongue of men and

angels. . "

The sounding brass of my heart says

"Love."

Jack Spicer

THE SONG OF THE GREAT REVOLUTION

O

IT MUST BE SUNG FROM MYRIAD MOUTHS

UNTIL THE EARS OF THE DEAF

ARE FORCED OPEN

AND THE EYES OF THE BLIND

AGAIN PERFORM MIRACLES

Money. Is of no value. The Super -Market

could send home 1/2 of their employees,

just put food on their shelves

the shoppers come & take them home. no need

for checkers.

everybody

should just do

everything. no such

artificial distinctions between "work" and

"recreation". week &

week end.

We can see through

their cellophane bag.

they tried to break the world open

into lids. we said: no

baby, break open

the whole key.

WHEN

you walking 'round out there

sure as i know some men die on crosses

come clean,

come if you can clean

i do know what it means it means

walking 'round out there under sun or weather

there you are,

change, if you can, you must

i'll direct (otherwise)

rays at you, my will

at you it is that simple

you simply have to change your life you have to see

beauty of blood clothing you moving

with the planetary beat

insisting, the tune the beat that all

if it would be true

moves to some loved one then the next

making the time hearing the earth shifts

there is, you could we would all

live in a song of our making.

Max Feinstein

Glorietta, New Mexico