my reservations


We were a proud people,
a caring people.
We gave you the turkey and the maize and you put us in labyrinths,
waiting to watch us be torn apart by the minotaur.
You have him off chain and us in the irons.
close enough to smell the musky stench,
it doesn’t come from the beast.
Like the Greeks we were philosophers in our own way,
and like the Romans you let your very own Caesar take over.
We walk along side trails of tears,
so deep it drowned the world,
leavening Cherokee roses it its wake.
It is said that Noah parted the red sea,
if I met him,
I would ask him to part those waters
because they’re defiantly crimson red.
We do the ghost dance every day with those we have lost,
but our elders can not dance with us for they no longer know who we are.
You carve our skulls like holiday ham.
You played pin the tail on the donkey with your rifles,
and washed away the land with your cannons.
Our tepees that were once our homes,
are now our burial mounds.
We were the rats in your jungle.
To you,
we spread death like the flu.
But you were the ticks that taxied on our backs,
you spread a blackness that made my brothers and sisters cough
and our skin fester and boil.
every day I fall into the darkness
and the only colloquy that can escape the reservation of my jaw
is Geronimo.
You engulfed us in a caring embrace of small pox infested blanket.
And now every day we walk on two wounded knees.
forcing us off to ground
so desolate that not even the mosquito’s wanted to vacation there.
And when it was all done you called us uneducated savages
and shipped us of like cattle to asylums called assimilation schools,
but we are not moonstruck.
We have lost our men,
we have lost our names,
you look at my hair.
it is not long and braided,
no eagle feathers dress these raven quills.
And like the raven
we are forced to be scavengers.
You took away our land because of your obsession for yellow rocks and faces in mountains.
when I look at those heads I see no man of my people,
only our weeping earth.
stealing off like carpet baggers in the night
seizing all we had
and in replacement you gave us whiskey,
We stumble inebriated through our lives,
our breath so thick with beer you can see the fog when its 90 degrees out.
Men like me shoot crooked arrows and just hope we hit the future.
We can not pray because the only god we know now days is your government,
who pays us off with alimony checks,
thrown into cupboards to forever waltz with the dust bunnies.
We live in broken homes along with our shriveled hearts.
You say that the worst thing is to see is man, who sleeps on a bench,
we can’t afford benches.
Turn on your radios, you hear a top of the chart pop song,
but have you heard the song of our suffering.
We are only in history books because that’s what we are becoming,
The people of a bygone time.
We are not allowed to be in your melting pot,
because we are too thick for the fondue.
You think crazy horse was insane
And sitting bull was crouching over a grenade.
Every day we have less and less,
till our hearts get tired of us as well,
and wounds open in our necks like fissures through California.
You feel you need to treat us like infants,
So as we don’t infest your way of life.
you try to keeps us warm,
not knowing that your milk is laced with arsenic
creating slain men who lay in gutters with nothing to live for.
Your guilt is the only thing rooting you to what’s left of our once great sequoia tree,
as you have fully choked us out like mistletoe.
You think your life is hard
in your high society of clean water and fresh food,
come live in mine.

Blake King-Krueger is a 21 year old professional actor and playwright out of Spokane, Washington. Blake was born in a small Alaskan Native American tribal town in Alaska. Blake is perusing an Associates of Fine Arts in Theater from Spokane Falls Community College