Kent Chovanec

Those little papers you trade for your sins, what do you call them? anyone? no?

A god knocked unconscious by the billy club of a policeman at a demonstration

See I only date hood. My last man never even met his father. Four women, six kids.

Where you see misunderstanding I see knuckles and teeth for sale in a storefront window.

My ancestors didn't emigrate. Why would anyone leave their native land?

Quit bothering with angels, I say. They're no good for Indians. Remember what happened the last time some white god came floating across the ocean?

A mausoleum moscaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains roused from death's dusty cradle

it hurts it points it dreams it offends it cries

Crossed in despair many deserts full of hope

The first real power she ever had and lined her womb with cement to make a graveyard for our children

Oh mighty Drop ____And because they have given us kindly so many more of our people.

We sing sin We thin gin

The tigers in the panel that she made will go on prancing proud and unafraid

Seeking a now that can breed futures like bread in our children's mouths so their dreams will not reflect the death of ours

I do not dwell within my birth nor my divinities who am ageless and half-grown