Poem: The Copper Mine to the Copper Mind

The Origins of Suburban Crisis

If you didn’t feel comfortable in your body,
When your sweaty palms made streaks on the desk at school,
When homogenization tactics left you alone,
Your voice is vibrating between this powerline and the one 500 miles away,

You had become a fierce warrior at twelve,
When the junior high principal ostracized you,
Injustice was nothing new,
Instead of your concerns being taken seriously,
You cut your arms all alone,

Chi Miigwech Mother Love Bone/Green River/Andy Wood/original non-corporate grunge,

While grunge understood you there was no way to process this energy,
They give you the “at-risk,” label,
Toss out nets of prevention but never deal with the root cause,

Rocks on the railroad tracks,
There were no cultural teachings,
Just a plastic Indian doll from China picked up at a tourist destination in Saint Ignace,
A gift and small gesture,
The culture was still far away as the ancestors sorrow yet to be healed,

I do love these plastic feathers,
They are all I have in suburbia,
The spiraling of building and construction,
Destruction and land loss,
My culture became this liberal utopia prior to gentrification,
The Dandelion Antique Shop,
Vintage Noir,
Going Once Going Twice,
Art and telephone wires,
They spiral into my heart to fill the soul sadness unexplainable in 1992,

Telephone

The telephone was plastic,
I push these buttons hard,
The sound spirals down the wires,
I hope sound vibrates through the wires in the sky and way up north to the ancestors,

They looked at you as the other,
The police came twice,
The table was flipped,
Generational trauma was swept out the front door,

Youth Indian Catholic Worker

Your heart aligned with the speeding train,
There was the “guy with the green hat,”
And I knew that I knew him,
Or maybe I was him?

I loved the speeding train,
The wind through my soul,
My hair strands catch a breeze,
To the train south,

The ancestors on da Soo line,
Riding out this copper mine,
To the copper mind,
Of decolonization,
In a cedar lodge of healing in Kchiwiikwedong,

Constellation Hearts Desire

An oak leaf was peace,
Most of those in suburban crisis could not see this peace,
Colorful telephone wires in a corner of a basement,
Connect to Ojibwe constellations,
The night sky without sounds,
To the sound of my heart,
The fingernails on my neck,
I will touch my neck in a loving way,
We are healing now.