Pontiac's Speech To The White Man
from Language
PONTIAC'S SPEECH TO THE WHITE MAN
Out of the blue sky, out of
the waters, out of the woods, of the deer,
the beaver the bush the bird flies, out
of my people the blood, out of
so many moons in this place a man
cannot count them, out of
grace with the Great Spirit who
gave us this land, you seek
to push us.
(At night, in my dreams,
already I smell you, I smell
your railroads, your sawmills,
my mother's hair burning in the forest, I
smell these things in my dreams,
I see that Chrysler plant you intend
over the graves of my people. You
cannot fool me! I am the
land you seek, I am the supple
bowing of the branches, I am the leaves,
waving a warning to my young men,
I have the strength
of all the roots in the forest
under me, the fox and the bear and the hawk and the badger
have given me their skills, all things and creatures
in the forest have given me what is theirs
for I have given them my spirit, I have, since
the Great Spirit first placed us here, I have
trod with respect and care over
my mother's flesh, over
this land.
All this! All this! All this!
you will have to push out, you white men, you
weak pale-faced rum drinking cowards, you
who have not been able to manage
your own affairs in your own land, you
who come now to desecrate mine. Ahhh, this
is your last chance, you bastards,
get the fuck out NOW,
or forever be food for the wrath of the forest people.
(I know, in my dreams, I know your perverse
power, your guns and your
driven multitudes of paid and punished
warriors, and I know, in my dreams,
against you my branches may break,
my leaves may be burned, my fur
singed and bleeding in the bitter cold
of your ways, and my heart bleeds, my roots
squirm and heave with these apprehensions,
but I hear, in my dreams I hear
over the clamor of your Fords, over
the cries of your powdery women in
your department stores, over the
shriek of the mutilated forest itself, I hear
another tongue, my tongue
in another's mouth, in my dreams I hear
the triumph of my forest speech
in another time, and it says, it
screams with a vengeance
UP AGAINST THE WALL MOTHERFUCKERS!
Dave Sinclair 1968, in Detroit, land of the Ottawas and Wyandots
The metallurgical analysis of the stone that
was my heart shows an alarming percentage
of silicon.
Silicon, as George would be the first to
tell you, is not a metal. It is present in
glass, glue and since glue is made from horses--living substance.
I love you. But as the iron clangs, the
glass, the glue, the living substance
(which, God knows, has been to as many
glue factories as it can remember)
muffles what the rest of the heart says.
I see you cowering in the corner and the
metal in my heart bangs. Too personal
The glass and glue in my heart reply. And
they are living substance.
You cannot bake glass in a pie or fry
glue in an omelette
"If I speak in the tongue of men and
angels. . "
The sounding brass of my heart says
"Love."
Jack Spicer
THE SONG OF THE GREAT REVOLUTION
O
IT MUST BE SUNG FROM MYRIAD MOUTHS
UNTIL THE EARS OF THE DEAF
ARE FORCED OPEN
AND THE EYES OF THE BLIND
AGAIN PERFORM MIRACLES
Money. Is of no value. The Super -Market
could send home 1/2 of their employees,
just put food on their shelves
the shoppers come & take them home. no need
for checkers.
everybody
should just do
everything. no such
artificial distinctions between "work" and
"recreation". week &
week end.
We can see through
their cellophane bag.
they tried to break the world open
into lids. we said: no
baby, break open
the whole key.
WHEN
you walking 'round out there
sure as i know some men die on crosses
come clean,
come if you can clean
i do know what it means it means
walking 'round out there under sun or weather
there you are,
change, if you can, you must
i'll direct (otherwise)
rays at you, my will
at you it is that simple
you simply have to change your life you have to see
beauty of blood clothing you moving
with the planetary beat
insisting, the tune the beat that all
if it would be true
moves to some loved one then the next
making the time hearing the earth shifts
there is, you could we would all
live in a song of our making.
Max Feinstein
Glorietta, New Mexico
Article
Subjects
Freeing John Sinclair
Old News
Ann Arbor Sun