USURP TIDES OF NATIVE CLAY STEAM DISHES…RATTLES THE PELICAN WINDS AT ALCATRAZ ISLAND
A NEW AND MAGICAL PIECE FROM RESIDENT ‘SOCIETY’ WRITER ERIC LASTICK
Native Alcatraz place…and it’s Indian justice—and to what to be, in no more than a moment, as just that fast, the pointed sharpness of the spear— loses it’s edge to the dull of truth…and the thunderous Cannon call; as this cut of native rock—casts aside all Red’ hope, yet not Red’ will. A stake of an island base block for all Native tribes—crushed like anvils. Triangulate by stamped-on, Anglo law, between the filaments…and the slotted placement of prison bars, once an Indian home—which houses the ugly and fallen renegade that glue this island so tightly away…and all of these hardened inmates at this rock, whom shiver in formed lines by the cold of the bay.
Great Tribes and spirit dwellers, felt and heard by the windfall…and the salt of the water, like a Native glove that has a piece of this rock. A spirit flock and pelican, long for it’s Native people to regain this granite space; as next, a prisoner’s dream and go-course journey to enthrall of the midnight traveler—-where there is no escape at this rock! The turn of the congregated wheel.. & it’s circle hoop, traversed by the villainous pass a Alcatraz island, in banded ring… as all lie still, as you are. Cherish more, even in loss… and the dole of the land. This rock still has teeth. This island slow, yet breathes and calls at it’s bottoms. Home of it’s rightful, yet cannot lift off the clout of Anglo ways…as it stalemates these prison walls in waves…in dead space.
(POST CIVIL WAR)
Fort Laramie: Old and new history brakes it’s treaty at the belly of the Sioux…and the cold heart-ed injustices of Aboriginal land at Alcatraz. The simple meek food gatherers of the Milwok Tribe reside home of the pelicans, until the governed vested wake of the pale and ugly, took to it’s ownership, looking down from the tall lighthouse to a granite display forming for military and Anglo wars…it’s nastiness of the water currents made an ideal home for the incorrigible…it’s grim still madness inveterate and inclined to stuff mass prisoners, to it’s indeterminate—with no escape hatch, just the cold of the cement…and the impending fear of pestilence and spanning of all it’s air! The Golden Gated is like a bridge that separates, not just cities, but the closing off and limiting of the Native culture…and Red torn souls…emptying of it’s worthiness…and stack cell to cell. Pack in the loneliness and it’s numbered ancients to a tailspin. Encircle a whirlwind of contrasted crime—too the sacred wheel of mixed souls…and their tempered destruction on an island gone mad! Prison guard sadistic enhancements in the form of slow annihilation, vanquishing of hearts to it’s wretch and scent of the last straw. Picking short and heading down, these angers of the Native Elders to a forever pain. There can be no rest at this stone structure. This rock is severed…and under a spell of ‘ever’ evil! No peace can come from such a place. No rest for a century’s work in art and culture; just the grim madness—and one glance of a shackled prisoner, as if meat rack with tentacles drawn by mad cap Wardens…political tails of a devil’s attached sewn-in-spool in latter day…a reprieve of sorts, to the island closing. Although, no mankind whispering of contrite…no lesson learned…only an emptiness subsides. Love once again returns. It brighten past all the rusted iron…the closing of the barbed up doors. The rotted wood and sour vine to which now open a tiny encircled light and orb. The wheel is love…sees of the great spirit. The Chief ravishing buckskin grills. The opening of the key…as love begins to center…and go round and round, to the wonder of the medicine wheel. No longer a plug to it’s culture, but a small rebuilt; if not in a physical sense, than just to know of the same subset of breathing room. Wipe away the evils to regain the nature of the Warrior…and the true nature—too the home of it’s braves.