Daily Archives: September 15, 2012

A Little Something

A little something:
I am neither Italian nor Apache,
and also both.  
A little something:
no one wants to hear it. 

A little something:
this big paleface?  Isn’t.
A little something:
I have no card to show you to give you government-level proof.
A little something:
you can gut yourself bending over backward
to prove stuff to people you could care less about.

A little something:
the family was divided, but that doesn’t show.
A little something:  
it came up every time
I looked at my father and knew he would say
I was one thing one day,
the other on the next.
A little something:  my mother never spoke of it.
A little something:  my grandmother
called my dad a thief
every day.

A little something:  I am a lot of poison.
A little something:  I don’t trust. 

A little something:  on the rez I’m another eyeroll, another shrug.
A little something:  to my Italian family, I’m not quite there.
A little something:  to supposed allies, I’m easily forgotten.

A little something:  I have had White friends
openly reassure me
that it’s ok with them
and being Indian does not matter,
it’s not the same, it’s not the same as if I had…

A little something in my clenched hand.
A little something on my shoulder.

A little something:  you don’t have a clue 
what’s behind the eyes of anyone, what they recall,
what they went through, what they go through.

A little something:  sometimes I don’t mention it
for months to new aquaintances
just to listen to them talk without knowing.
A little something:  sometimes I mention it at once
to new aquaintances 
so I can get the stupid out in the open.
Sometimes I am surprised.
Sometimes I wish I was surprised.

A little something in my eye.
A little something behind me, whispering.

A little something:  I can tell you are bored with this.
A little something:  I can tell you think it’s overblown.
A little something:  I can tell you think it’s not the same as your pain.
A little something:  I know it’s not…never said it was,
but you can’t hear that
over your own damn noise.

Don’t deny it.
I can hear you. 
You all say it,
you all say it
straight or slant,
and still  
you wonder why I keep 
a certain distance, keep 
a little something 
back. 


Radioactive Artist: Finale

I just must stop myself before I am stopped.
That explains it better than saying

a life of yarn after yarn
got old.

I am tired of paying
attention and cost;  comes a point

you ought to stop messing yourself up. 
That’s all I’m saying.

I know, I know
a few things are going to be around

a long time after me, but will they be
understood as I desire?  I guess

that’s not my problem, I guess
I ought to stop worrying and loving

and suchlike.  Stop myself, then,
as I should.  As is desired.  As is 

going to happen anyway by dint
of my doing, probably, no matter

how safely I proceeded — you can’t do that
and remain safe, really.  I stop pretending

here, now.  Anyway
you’ve got the work to look at.

I’m tangential to it.  Always have been.
Enough to say:  don’t waste time.

I stop here because it’s a waste of time.
Never, though, the work.  The work stands.

Don’t waste time thinking otherwise;
I’m good to go now.  It’s been enough.

— for James Acord