Paul G

Posted by Homalosa

Four Pushups


When dancin' 'round the arena
I move. I go past giggling
jingle dress girls.
Past laughing flocks of rainbow
fancy shawls that gossip 'bout
proud Braves in Technicolored bustles.


When dancin' 'round the arena
I move. I nod past Grandma Lucy
who dances to remember
Geronimo.
I go past, back to
Great Grandma braiding her daddy's hair.
I fly past way back to Texas,
where Coppered Colored Adline left her own
and followed her heart, won by
The Red Man from Alabama.


When dancin' 'round the arena
I come back. I dance hard
crushing the heads of our oppressors
under the latigo souls of my feet.
I submit to deafening Heartbeat shots.
I rise gracefully, having found
food to eat.


When dancin' 'round the arena,
I dance,dance, dance.
I remember what
I'm not supposed to
and I stop
on time.


Copyright Asani Charles 1999



Grand Entry


M.C. bellows,
"Dancers, last call for Grand Entry!
Tack on that duct tape, it's powwow time!"
But Susie Walks Again is still getting
her hair braided.


Drum roll call rumbles through the arena,
circling outside the ring of white
vendor canopies, out to the parking lot
where brown van conversions double
as champion dancer dressing rooms.


Graceful Northern Buckskin Grandmas
make their way to the East Side.
Spit-smoothing the braids of tiny tots.
While seasoned Southern Straight Gents
have one last drag and joke before stepping out.


Finally, Susie's braids are done. She runs,
soars, nearly flys, her fancy shawl is airborne.
She's a renegade butterfly, but she catches
herself. Smooth now, no panting.
She smile nods at Karlie Charles, first place last.


The colors are in first, carried by Hanoi Vets for Code Talkers.
Families rise under EZ-UPs, dads spotchecking
for poacher photographers.
The fireblast of technicolor bustles and vibrant
heartbeat of the drum sing the same song.


Grand Entry


copyright Asani Charles 2002








Indin Souljer Boy


With utmost respect and honor I thank those who give it all...


What’s he to do these days?
No jobs, no prospects,
Where, here? On the rez?
Where, there? In the city?
Might as well, cop a meal,
Nice suit and a bad haircut.

Might as well make grandma happy.
He can sit stoic in the frame
next to Grandpa’s and Red Cloud’s.
swap stories with daddy and uncle Jim,
“Iraq IS NOT the new Vietnam, cuz only half the country
supports Iraq. We had nobuddy.”


Yeah, and then he can gourd dance.
Standing there, proud to have served his country.
gallant and valiant, he’ll extend his hand to
gracious shawled mothers.
Might as well feel good about it.
Does he really need to know what he fought for?


After all, he’s a member of two nations
with two flags and two eagles, one revered, one defiled.
Isn’t it his duty to defend the not so green anymore land;
all that we have left, from new conquistadors?
Isn’t it his turn to pick a good day to die
In the name of broken promises?


Might as well right? After all,
they’ll sing songs for him,
bake cakes for him,
hang quilts for him
name mountains after him (just like Piestewa)


And then with his last good breath given in the best way,
won’t his sacrifice finally be right?


-Asani Charles
Copyright 2/7/2005

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