A comet flew through my soul
Not far from Black Hills Gold
Uphill from a
Snaking
River
Did yellow hair die sinners?
Cheyenne
Cherokee
Navajo
Pontiac
How
The
____
Did Indian
Names
Wind up on
Cars?
Four Sleeping
Giants
View a Corn Palace Circus
From a cold land
As spirits roam alone
Bury my car at wounded knee
Many years ago, back when I was a wee sophomore in college, my roommate Charlotte stumbled upon this poem in the streets of San Francisco. I've had it on my computer ever since, and I love it.
This blog is filled with negative images, instances of racism and ignorance that erase our current existence--but this image is the opposite. I like to picture the busy residents of San Francisco scurrying through their everyday lives, heads down, eyes lowered, and pausing--for even a moment--to read the poem. Reading the mix of recognizable references combined with contemporary Native identity, and realizing, for one second, that Native people might live in their very city, and questioning the preconceived notions they hold.
I love the temporary nature of the project, and the anonymity. I think it lends to it's power. The poem is a fleeting moment, not meant to be permanent--guerrilla art in a rare Native form.
(Thanks Char!)