Poem: New Age Sacred Sage

I’ve got this feeling,
I’m feigning for sage,
This sacred sage,
It is so sacred,
That is was my destiny to arrive at this new age shop,
To buy $50 worth of sacred sage,

I walk out of the store and nearly bump into a real Native American,
But I am not sure,
Their skin was light,
Their skin was dark,
Their hair was golden,
Their hair was red,
Their nose was small,
Their nose was pointed,

They didn’t fit the stereotype in my colonial suburban mind,
I believe I just had a divine experience,
I ask,
Are you Native American?
They say a tribe I have never heard,
They yell back at me and say I should know the tribes in the area,
They light up that Pall Mall cigarette and storm away,
Down the sidewalk with an old rolling suitcase,
Torn and stained,

I’m hurt,
I need to smudge this bad energy from the Native American,

I climb into my suburban Volvo,
Drive to my cul-de-sac named “Indian Springs,”
It’s my right,
I’ve achieved every bit of what I have,
Angry Indians,
I’m enlightened,

1978,
1978,
1978.