KID ICARUS


Every Indian has a silver lining
I thought to myself
As I saw a young skin
Trying to fly
through downtown Pine Ridge
Amidst all the dirt clouds
He had speckles of silver paint
Around his mouth
And zeppelins
That were his fingertips
Making zig zags
Across the air
But he was going nowhere
I’d thought had the spray paint
Been gold
He’d be Icarus
Befittingly burnt by the sun

What mangy wings we have
Unable to get off the ground
Without a wicked substance
We are the meek
But we will not inherent a thing
Even if we could rise
With our degenerated bones
Most of us around here know
It’s a no-fly zone
How amazing
Those golden gates must be
But I cannot imagine standing
On a white cloud
Tracking mud into heaven
I would never be let in
Perhaps I should’ve ran to
That Gabriel Indian
Blowing into his plastic
Bag trumpet
Perhaps I should’ve rose up and joined him
It’d be the closest I’d ever get
in the sweet chariot, the sweet vapors
of a heaven