I can still hear the war drums
across the dark sky,
‘injun’s, here dey come’,
like the thunder speaking to the rain;
one lone warrior riding the ranges
of eternity, the words
spoken,
unlearned,
born
without culture or tradition.
A destiny
to die in the street, stripped
to your soul so many miles from home.

Moving toward that far-off beat,
where people feast and rebuild
their heritage,
rising
from the Mississippi; you shine
in the sun at dawn
in the moon at midnight
and my eyes
when I write.
Big Chief
with a golden crown,
feathers bright,
and beads
all sown, calling down this lost art;
a dim brilliance radiating
from your sides
to the gutters
on Rampart street, outside your shotgun shack
as you prepare
to head out
to the battlefront,
with your peacepipe
and pistol in hand,
the humid air
fills your lungs and you scream ‘Mighty Kootie Fiyo’
as the crowd turns to watch our tribe rumble and swell
up Decatur,
the groove buckling the concrete,
calling all to flee or fight.
Now I run alone,
two blocks ahead,
your voice swelling from behind;
speaking in ancestral voices,
rough enough to pave a road
to you, from where I stand and say ‘Ho Na Nae’.

Some Other Kind Of Index