Come Play with Me

I wanna be the red skin.
I wanna be the martyr,
hung up, nailed,
shot like coyote.

Roped to the hood
of a ‘52 Chevy-
a downed deer
rolling eyes and
sticking tongue
at everyone
that stares.

I wanna be the Injun
layin dead in the dirt,
beneath a cork gun.
That would be so cool.
Tay ya.
If only I weren’t so white.

I wanna have eagle feathers
hangin from my head,
wear buckskin britches.
(I wonder if my balls would sweat,
or be cooled hanging so free?)

Tommy go get your gun then.
I wanna be the misunderstood
beaten drunken native,
with arrow, firewater,
and long raven hair
tied up in braids.

You can be the stinkin white man.
Why don’t you folks ever wash?
Why do you do this to me?