Trevino Brings Plenty: Music

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• MP3 play whole song, lo-fi (modem)

Recorded live on KBOO 90.7 FM, 17 March 05, Portland, OR.

I sit at another poetry reading.
The poet at the podium
rambles on about nature's beauty
and the lost Indian tribes
along the Columbia River.

I am the only Indian in the audience.

Yes, there has been change
in a people's history.
There have been those
who were massacred
for wanting to live
peaceful lives.
This is true now
around the world
as well as in America's cage.
Time doesn't heal wounds
when fresh ones are opening.

This poet's new book
includes pictures
of the Columbia Gorge
and snapshots of Indians
fishing its shores perched on scaffolds.

The poet chirps bland descriptions.
I sit and take this in.
I am bored with every word said.

What kind of Indian
does this white man want?
Would he be satisfied
if a Lakota family adopted him?
That wouldn't make him
any closer to Indian people.
He can still loosen his bolo tie,
remove the turquoise jewelry,
discard any sense of Indian sympathy.

I can't remove my skin
or rip out my heart.
I can't stop feeling
lonesome and at home
when I listen to a drum group.

Has this poet ever been to an Indian wake?
Has he seen the joy and sorrow
in his grandmother's eyes
when she spoke the language?

Can he see in his family
the legacy of termination
by biological warfare
in blankets that did
their job
and chemical warfare
in alcohol
that is still working its confusion?

Does he know the feeling of hatred
while quietly sitting on public transit
just because of their appearance?

"It's tragically sad," he says.
"The darkness enveloped the river people."

This place wasn't dark
I would only call my home dark
if I was foreign to it.

I sit and ignore this poet.
He is relieving his guilt
waiting for the audience
to flush it down.

I know I have never disappeared.
I know I am Indian and alive
in the 21st century.
I jeer at after his reading.
It was more pretty lies.