Ed. Note: The following is the first in a series of excerpts from “IRL,” a long poem.
I sit scooped
I want to tell you a story. This
is a traditional story,
this story comes our
way from the ancestors.
This story is my story
the story of summer
and nine stories tall
grow the dendrical shafts
of preconception. Rooftop
parties r the payday
of summer n I tell Max
Just so you know, when bird
flu comes I’m going
to be fine. I hope you’ll b,
too : -) Tradition is a cage,
like an Edward Curtis pic
of high copper cheekbones.
Fear cages, feeds sec-
rets. Faith, privacy—river
of belief that one is owed
an internal life, a rich
vista of idiosyncrasies,
like looking at windows
and wondering who’s in there
having sex? I don’t want
to set you up for a racial
encounter, but NDNs
are reluctant to tell
their stories to strangers.
There is no such thing
as “Indian,” but now
there’s no turning back.
There’s turning over, bounding
out of bed and head-
first into the hammer
of stars. Story is perform-
ance, tradition, language
class—billows like summer.
Dictionary is kind of a blast
of chill air. Language is living
history class, like you n me,
conquest hardwired
into lingua franca—subject
noun agreement, laborious pidgin,
tongues chopped n left writhing
in the proto-memories of a drunk
twentysomething waiting for
the ascenseur fumbling for
the words sekt und Gauloise Blau?
at the Kaisers in Mitte legs red red-
ding stomp the length of Boca
Chica for pollo a la plancha por
favor. Who deserves yr story?
Not all stories. Not my story
my lol truth not life of live-
lihood or food. Who deserves
this, particular, story, yr, blasting?
My racist ass password
isn’t up for public consumption.
Your suicide isn’t up
for my Facebook feed.
Answers, like cadence, like slang
change with audience. Multi-
lingual flexible the reflexive.
They ask what do Indians use
to treat poison oak? Mable McKay
takes a drag from her cig on-
stage Calamine lotion takes
a puff of history. I slap myself.
Ppl know when they’re being
condescended to.
Just go to France. We
suspicious we know these ppl
are only interested in the stories
we gift them—fair weather, thrill
seeking Not concern not
where is yr next meal
coming from, not are you
beaten at home, not how
many of your relatives killed
themselves. No that would be
too personal. Irresponsible. Out
of the scope of. Too sticky
icky no no. Just convert
to Catholicism then they’ll
leave you alone, right?
Just recount the scorpion
trails. Just tell me about
lightning baskets. The bird
songs, sing us the bird songs!
Art is not very kidneys.
Your dialysis isn’t very well
composed. History is way
more broad than corn syrup
based diets. Science
is carbon dating ashes
from stolen burial urns (after
a clean energy project to harn-
ess the wind chooses a literal
ancient NDN burial ground
to plant its windmills) so we
know how old, then behind
museum glass—preserved
for our children. Come on. We
are basically doing you a favor—
You don’t want your
stories wiped out
when you are.
Internalizing inevitable annihilation,
the brain buffers. Alien
invasion overlord movies
r cute in a Monet way.
I survive post-apocalypse
that started 1492. Maybe
you’ll live too. Breathless dash
from this party to catch our
train. Ppl fumbling for Metrocard
I slide mine in my front pocket
when we leave the roof. Some
of these fools are slow as shit
I shout over my shoulder I’m
catchin this train, if you don’t make
it you know where we’re meeting
up. See you there! is my stock.
Don’t challenge Muse.
The thing that compels you
to sing? Don’t then challenge
it to a singing contest.
Poor, beautiful Thamyris,
singing prodigy, glory
of the cithara, lover of
Hyacinth. Can’t you just
see him sashay? Srsly,
who didn’t love this Greek
shit as a kid?
So witchy and swishy.
Muse takes his voice away.
Amy Winehouse, too.
Poor, beautiful Amy
Winehouse lost
in the beehive.
Muse is not
don’t write it
amused.
____________________________
Image: “Marco Polo” by Cat Glennon.
