A Poem by Blake Adamson
Lincoln said days were swift as an Indian arrow
I don’t believe that’s true
Days are like three greased Indian bullets
Every two you take to the heart
The third you put into your brain
And whatever the outcome
Everybody else is left
To pick up the itty bitty
Bits and pieces left
–artwork by Thu Hien Nguyen
A Poem by Cory Adamson
Spread-eagle in the earthen pudding.
That’s the big, cursive “FIN” Smokey,
that’s Valhalla. One Aztec sacrifice
after another to defeat the Sky and Earth
in a staring contest. That’s the climax
to this crescendo, Smokey.
You can bet your firstborn baby on it.
What are we doing Smokey? Fighting a war
with chalk-colored clouds. How many marathons
must a man run before he gets his medal?
I need a brother.
Flat on your back, nose-deaf to the turned
earth, you think of secret isles and
honest politicians. So you build clay wings
and fly like the emperor penguin.
An Ashinabe poem translated by Gerald Vizenor
as my eyes
look across the prairie
i feel the summer
in the spring
You think I have visions
because I am an Indian.
I have visions because
there are visions to be seen.