YELLOW PRAIRIES

Country music always haunts me.
The twang of the guitar strings
--Takes me to the bad memories
And in the vast lands
Of prairie grass
--The color of pee stains
on a white clay man's pants,
or the dead dreams of an Indian.
This earth is dying.
The Black Hills herself
Is just an old charcoal heart,
Barely surviving
The cardiac arrest
From the fat of her land.
Even the activists just smoke her weed
And say, “peace man.”
I feel like a typical squaw-whore
--I feel like something written
By Louis L'Amour.
I am so co-dependant
On the land of the free.
Home of the brave
--The savage that never wanted me.
I am such a liver failure.
Like a drunk lover
It waits for me there.
With my fat heart
And no backbone.
I am ready for the cirrhosis
--The fate that was always mine
To call my own