Knee Legacy

As the Lakotahs say, “wokiksuye cankpe opi “ (remember Wounded Knee).

Six score years ago

300 Lakotahs died,

but saw no justice.

At Wounded Knee Creek

one lone Knee survived assault

and went limping off.

This one pristine bone,

became a fugitive and

roamed the world alone.

Christian Morgenstern

met this wee celebrit-knee

inspiring poetry:

The Knee

On earth there roams a lonely knee

It’s just a knee, that’s all.

It’s not a tent, it’s not a tree,

it’s just a knee that’s all.

There was a man once in a war
Overkilled, killed fatally.
Alone, unhurt, remained the knee
Like a saint’s relics, pure.

Since then it roams the whole world, lonely.
It is a knee now, only.
It’s not a tent; it’s not a tree;
Only a knee, no more.

After World War One,

the Knee thought War was done, then

saw the Second one.

Facing war the world

around, the Knee headed home,

a jiggety jog.

It stowed aboard a

Carnival Cruise ship disguised

as a castanet.

As desk paper weight

it reminded Lakotas

of their legacy.

So they gathered in

‘73 and fought a small

bloody incident.

About that time I

took a class of poetry

when one morning

Professor Ammons

turned to face me, “Don’t bury your

axe in Wounded Knee.”

“That line just came to

me. I’ve got to jot it down,

put it in a poem.”

Though I never found

his line in a poem, it

burned in memory.

A calculus of words

spawned and grew from that time on.

Knee, unbent, lives on!

“Don’t bury..." to post,

tweet, poetry...an endless

spiral mission creep.

Note: I recently read Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History by S. C. Gwynne. The Comanches were among the most cruel and mean-spirited of tribes, and so hated that other tribes willingly betrayed them. Sort of the Sparta among Indian tribes though among the last hold-outs. Sad to say, mankind's heritage is a long history of warring tribes/gangs that projects enemy tribes as the source of the evil in this world. We should know better by now. My fear is that mankind will all become brothers just about the time that we are overwhelmed by unstoppable global warming, and then mankind will revert to desperate tribal butchery again because the amount of livable land is so small.

American Pie, Divided

A tablet of marble white lard

sits like a prediction deep inside

my belly cavity wrapped and bent

inside fortune-cookie flesh,

but exercise as I might I can’t

work this fat off, not yet.

In pigs this fat is lard,

best fat for flaky pie crusts

because it’s pristine, and not

tied to skin nor marbled

with muscle, blood, or cream.

Alabaster ambergris from 30 years

of afternoon snacks in offices having

few excuses or places to pace except

to restrooms and snack machines.

Alluring slots for silvery coin drops,

clinks and whirrs, culminate in a

ker-thunk of robotic obeisance

yielding pale fragile chips that

fragment into flavor, pressing oil

and flecks of salt onto our lips

and cans of sweet bubbles that

gently murmur us awake.

Or Mars chocolate bars molded of

macho peanuts layered with

Venusian caramel on nougat beds,

unspeakable chocolate acts

by Peter and Paul…Saints?

rolling coconut into sushi hay bales

or puckery mouth buttons

undressing a flavor tease

on the tongue and playing

thin rainbow shell games.

The adage “a moment on the

lips forever on the hips”

or worse, the belly or beyond.

Because this ghostly fat

is apt to break apart with time

like ice floes to float free

and then jam the head or heart.

For decades, floors of workers trapped

in a calorie war, where snacks are

Trojan horses and the only winners

are a banality of billionaires,

war profiteers who don’t dare

pay for Pyrrhic medical care.

P.S. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visceral_fat#Abdominal_fat

Note: Snickers and Almond Joy still contain trans fat additives. Skittles still contain hydrogenated palm kernel oil. On the other hand, Frito-Lay has largely moved away from trans fats though it still uses a minute amount.

Catch and release at Walmart Sporting Goods

Slowly I wade in and flow with

a stream of shoppers blinking

like bulbs at glinting trees and fish

with our eyes the gilt rainbow logos.

Swimming with the school past

cutout elf land to escape cabin fever,

all double over with nostalgia to hear

small-town carolers' good will and cheer.

As baskets bulge and aisles pinch,

checkout lines divide and cinch.

But past the clothes and fishing rods,

my jaws set and angling wrist goes stiff.

Yank on a supply chain to its tip

and find sullen child elves,

bent men and their women,

pale and gulping nasal drip.

Where new plants and goods

spawn, tributaries often narrow

and haze blankets cabbagey air

sifting coal soot into marrow.

Speakers boom, “Today only, half off

La Belle Dame brand boots…” I walk out

empty handed, pale and loiter not

in the poorly banked and icy lot.