 Independence Day. Real cowboys and fake Indians walk the hot-ass fault of downtown America. Gravel and tar pave the patriotic path of rodeo queen and faceless brass. March to the beat bellowing national pride. The contemporary calvary hails stripes and medals, but leave no trinkets as they crush our clamshell history with every step justice parades, with main street and wax convertibles and pioneer families on horseback. Tilted stetson shades, sunglasses, sunburn and spurs mark the face of America red, white, and blue. Flags fly high through staggered heatwave and fireworks false star designs. I grew up in a small town in Mendocino County and they pride themselves. They're all getting all geared up right now for the Independence Day celebration. And it's, I guess, the oldest one in California, and that's where that poem comes from. Red hues and the blues. In a chamber of grace voices behind me echoing, a gold flame fluttering, ancient symbols unfamiliar with your absence, shadowed colors of glass, a puddle of tears between my feet, stunning blue streaks and red hues on angel wings, smeared blood, a thousand ribbons carrying in light, hardwood carved to preserve the story, sanctuary on a hilltop, a trail spoked in four directions, winter day my heart is blue, ageless shadows whisper, organ pipes to the sky. I have no confessions to make other than this loneliness. My hands clasps together, my hands spread and reaching toward sky, a gesture of fleshy wings, a large dark man with smooth hands at the edge of my thought, a chamber of red wilting rose petals, rusted keys rattling behind my back, my blood, books within pages held by many hands, shadows of regret lurking, doors like glass wings flexing, and though I liked candles, I could not leave my heart at the altar, a postcard to the beyond before and after, silent words shaking as they leave my mouth, my breath, wind on the aching heart, scent of the departed, shadow where I once knew warmth, a leaf lower on a street with no trees, thick glass on the eye cracking, tomorrow just darkness away, tongues stuttering on the truth, throat swelling with fear, hoofs up the back of my spine, a clattering of latent desire, footsteps not taken, the eye angled away from clear light, late afternoon sun calling me out to it, friends lost in misunderstandings, somewhere someone is gasping at light for life, no matter how many candles I light can't counter your darkness, oak trees that bear no acorns are rooted in your heart, unseen bells chime the afternoon hour, I have no forgiveness to speak, earthquake poised, bones and stones to be dislodged, shoreline waiting on fog. Again, thank you, again from a small town, neighbors, the blonde-headed boy across the road runs the length of half the field and yells to his mother, waiting on her cement steps, they aren't home. Voices shout me to attention when the mother replies, ask the Indians. My father stands on our front porch as I approach the old Ford truck. The boy looks at his mother, then back at us, all stalled. It must be serious. They have come to us in desperation, the last resort. But we don't take time to think all that as the boy crosses asphalt halfway and says that his brother has hurt himself. They need a ride to the hospital. We don't hesitate and haul the family and the mother holding the flesh together of the child who has fallen on a canning jar. The gap is wide and long against the pale lean chest. The hospital is cleansed with silence. It is strange sitting near these kids who are my neighbors, these frightened strangers who fear my eyes and speak no words. Everyone leaves through long ago magazines. I ask their names. Finally one answers another whispers, they don't ask mine. I wonder if they know the names of neighbors they don't speak of us with names just the Indians. Call the Indians like our mail read, Mr. and Mrs. Indian. It's in the Indian's yard. Here come the Indians. Oh no, the Indians. Hey Indian, how Indian? Hey white boy. Stretches silence all the way to this square space we share while waiting for the mother or someone, anyone to bring word. Would he be okay? Would it be long? Should I wait? Does she want me to? Fear me to? Like her anxious children turning their hands. They hold themselves tight until the mother returns with the stitched child. Everyone is relieved on the back roads home with their mother, Mr. Indian, waiting on our front porch. We all agree in gladness that he wasn't hurt badly. Glad we could help. The children scramble behind their mother in silence. She thanks us, offers gas money. We insist it has nothing to do with money. They turn and walk the length of asphalt back to their house without asking or speaking our names. The death of Elvis is coming up. And I never was an Elvis fan. But this poem came out of me. Excuse me. I can easily, okay, anniversary. I can easily recall the day Elvis died. Leticia was driving me from work to the dentist in a bright orange Dotson when the DJ told the news. I was curious with her reaction and when she finally said it was terrible getting such news on the way to have your wisdom teeth removed. Leticia was older. Elvis meant something different to her. I was more interested in the surrounding hours, what color they were and what filled them up. Remembering pictures of him bloated and sweating on some glaring stage. An American favorite, American icon, American style. The dentist's job turned out to be more than expected. A jet stream of nitrous oxide dimmed the glare as I tripped on Elvis until called back with instructions to hold my fist firmly beneath my chin so my head wouldn't bounce when he used the bone chisel. My head bounced anyway. He mumbled something about the strength of Indian teeth while he shook his head in some kind of amazement and in the allotted time of two hours he accomplished only half the job. I'd have to return for the same thing on the other side. He stitched me up, sent me home with false laughter in my blood and a bottle of crooked in which made me sick and wasn't enough for Elvis. I spent the next few days with my new lover who tempered my swollen face misery. We talked about Elvis, how my older brother liked him, his older sisters did the Elvis thing, adored the king from jailhouse rock and his superstition of the mine. It is 25 years beyond that August and still every year when his death is memorialized on radio and TV. I wonder of those circling hours and the whereabouts of wisdom. It's obviously more than 25 years now. In the house. In the motherload country south of my homeland clouds converge and dissipate, block out the sun then let it through. The round house smokes, its mud floor molds around my feet, warmed by spirit, fed by fire of madrone. Untitled, rusted in gray, rusted in graying wildcat, elder out so late on a winter's night. What stories have you gathered in the tough leather of your paws or that are contained in the clear and swollen drop of night's moisture on the end of your silver whisker reflecting Venus or the hunger moon? On certain nights I have seen it shine from your eye as you dashed in front of my headlight over the edge of the eel river canyon. Does it mean your time is short or do you and Venus have a thing going on? Salmon flesh beneath moon, a feast is near. That fish in night sky going up river, heading home, this acorn time names his journey, calls him back to beginnings, called back to a soft circle belly, flaming red fire, flesh feeding an October night flight of fish across a frozen sky with skin of stars. I have seen that same star-colored salmon flickering in another river, not named sky but not far from here. Several nights back I stopped at that river and moon gave streaks cut by fish splitting a silver ribbon of water which was on that particular night a lean woman body swaying and dancing the river motion beneath moon. It's okay, thank you, thank you. One time I read this, the poem I'm going to read right now and there was an elder Indian lady in the audience and when I got done she was like, I would have never read that. And then I don't know what my mother would say either but the blue house. Waste high yellow mustard is blooming and swaying in the afternoon wind on the banquet lot where the whorehouse stood. Its reputation was relatively new like the odd color of blue paint though the house itself was old. She knew stories that shadowed it before it became sullied by ill repute. Ethel lived there briefly until her daughter's man choked to death in the middle of one random night. Something caught in his throat while his lover screamed into the endless darkness for any help. Now yellow mustard are bending and swaying in the city lot where that house once stood. Even school kids had taken to calling at the whorehouse as they ate at the Mexican restaurant across the street taking note of who went in and out and the revolving door or who got picked up or dropped off anywhere near. They made distinction that it wasn't a drughouse but a whorehouse even though no one mentioned or knew who the whores were if there was a madam or what the price was or what color painted the inside walls what those walls witnessed. Then one day it was empty and quiet almost serene and everyone wondered what had happened where they all went. There were no new tenants no deposits first and last payments nothing until a backhoe showed up and clawed through the age siding shattering the smeared windows bringing it all down. Now yellow mustard are swaying gracefully in the vacant space where the whorehouse once stood and no one really cares. No one notices the lean women of green dress and lacy yellow hats dancing there. I would have never read that poem. Streets of Mendocino. They weren't cowboy boots and the heel precisely stacked was more height than I preferred but the whale cured leather shown both strength and suppleness through the streakless glass luring tourists which we were not. The boots were the color of a winter river or coffee softened by cream and the off season sale made the contoured cow height even more attractive just what a shopkeeper's window display was meant to do. To the tourists we were a rare attraction on the narrow village sidewalks we couldn't pass for cigar store Indians decorating the neat row of storefronts that maintain the fishless fishing village fog suspended offshore a violet shadow a wave of its own the water shifting moon pole the polished hard heel slope from arch to toe and even though she tried to hide it the clerk was unaccustomed to our presence then surprised gladly accepting our payment no gold nuggets nor gold coins but green paper contemporary currency legitimate seagulls squealed and floated the tide carved the shoreline a crash and spray the yawn the boots worn to poetry readings these were boots you would not wear to the mountains these were inland valley boots not exactly rain boots though they fared well over the years I hadn't worn them in years but knew of their aloof presence in the closet box or folded under the bed through many storms relocations divorce and basic neglect they did not fade the heels still straight and stack slightly worn on the outer edges could not recall the rhythm of my stepping and leave no prints on my heart I gather memories breathing distant and faintly of the woven years of past footfalls as I place them in the plastic bag destined for the thrift store let us all walk forward I still have those boots I couldn't give up I'm gonna just read part of a part of something here even though I guess there's some I don't think it's a written rule but I guess there's some rule about reading things in progress yeah that's what I mean I've never seen it I haven't seen the documentation or who adopted it so but I feel like this is kind of in progress so I'll read parts of it display there is an Indian sitting in the display window on a street in Mendocino Halloween has passed so it isn't a costume he sits on a wooden chair his feet crossed his stiff cowboy boots are empty his legs are stuffed in denim his plaid blue shirt button to the top he has deep black hair wrapped not in braids down his either shoulder to near his waist wrapped twice he looks stoic as Indians do his face isn't just brown but more than a tint of red the village lights come on a soft yellow to meet the clouded twilight a soft yellow and this Indian is sitting I don't know why and he has a black lab at his side as Indians do there is a whittled branch staff lying across his lifeless lap a branch someone took time to create topped with some animal horn with the points downward and four colors of direction painting painted in the round end of the hollowed horn his hands are of a workers and I don't know why that Indian is sitting in the display window in a shop in a high end tourist town touted as a once fishing village my boots click first on cement sidewalks then on wooden planks maybe it is like the old times of the Indians sitting in storefront windows red bandana faded around his clay face furrowed his brown beaten hands either asking or offering and darkening footsteps at dinner tables cocktail happy hour beating against the shoreline a totem pole stands tall behind him though he looks as though he is not from totem pole country but it all blends together like Indians do there must be a story in moist looking marble eyes maybe because Thanksgiving is approaching that he is here on the autumn streets of Mendocino with the tide coming back in and the storms layered on the horizon I still don't know why that Indian is in the display window sitting right below the handmade open sign when the store has long closed for the day and in the adjacent windows are zebras and giraffes that have nothing to do with an Indian looking stoic in a wooden chair in the display window in 2011 or butterfly stained glass or Corinthian bells but I do notice that the liquor flask is a far and safe distance from the Indian sitting in the display window so she goes back to visit the Indian but their eyes cannot meet his shiny round eyes are fixed on the edge of the ocean crashing at the cliff bottom across the mouth of the river the winter stars the green black tree line against the southern sky he has no periphery his hollow clay head expressionless he doesn't acknowledge her presence he has survived the post-holiday season and remains now with a small blonde puppy smiling from his lap he must be effective accomplishing achieving results a shining lure in his silence a bronze glint through the window he is working hard like Indians do I check to see if the Indian is still in the sore front window I go to gaze into his plastic amber eyes sitting in modern-day trading post window perhaps because it is called a trading post the proprietor props him up as an attraction though he is not for sale I learned that he has a name he is called Eddie not Eddie two chiefs or Eddie lone wolf or white wolf two bears or snake eyes or iron hawk but Eddie derived from Edward English I presume though he does not appear like an Eddie like one might name a pet I also learned he is made of paper and plaster of Paris oh yes and some wood redwood for alder or spurs maybe even myrtle though he seems odd though it seems odd that a very dark out-of-place stoic storefront Indian could be partially propped up by a wood called myrtle I have always felt bad for him I see that he is tired and worn down like the rabies tag on the small dog around the neck sitting on his lap and the red twine tying and holding his chipped plaster plastered Paris hands into the shirt cuffs have slipped and are showing the nothingness of his arms while his hands dangle she tells me where Eddie has come from a name down the coast that means nothing to me maybe to Eddie and that he has been in the store for twenty years and that mine was the first inquiry to which I respond I can easily believe that and ask his servitude intending no disrespect but for one slice of a small moment Coyote's tail makes a subtle almost seductive soft wind on my face lures me to the sea to seize this moment maybe it is now that Eddie should be set free maybe I should unlock him from his duties his empty hollow stare and he could ride away on a seahorse into the Pacific sunset arm in the air his chipped hand dangling by a red plastic cord in what would be a triumphant fist like Indians do on posters or paintings Thank you and poor Eddie's still there I'm just going to finish with something I wrote I got invited to read it a little coffee house there in Willets on a December night when friends were traveling to protest the pipeline and I was being asked almost every day why I wasn't there and there were many reasons why I wasn't there but mostly because I work on the sound of flapping clipper ships we stand in the first slapping of the building wave we stand in the destructive print of the first step taken by foreign feet we stand in the reverberating motion of Ponce de Leon Cortes and de Soto we stand in the determination of Coronados conquistadors we still stand from beneath the pressure of religious leaders we stand with corn, beans, squash and meat brought to Plymouth we stand with the introduction of smallpox we stand in a circle around the sharpened crown we stand on the ship carrying us to be traded for better slaves we stand in the fury of King Philip's war we still stand in the aftermath of the Pequot massacre called Thanksgiving we stand in the bounty placed on a scalp we stand in the stiff fold of the Jesuits robe we still stand within the cold walls of the war department we stand on the Il Camino Real and the grass of the Presidio we stand in defiance of Thomas Jefferson to exterminate we stand in the shadow of St. Clair's defeat we stand on the foundation of the agency and outside the fort walls we still stand on either side of the St. Lawrence Ohio and Mississippi we stand in the rattling name of Gatlin we still stand on the shores of Huron, Superior, Erie, Ontario and Michigan we stand on the spine of the great divide we stand on the broken words of 500 treaties we stand on the crooked shoulders of Shippington, Sherman and Jackson we stand with crazy horse red cloud Pontiac we stand with the wind of wounded knee we stand with the enduring of Bison we stand through the stampede of the Sooners we still stand on the sharp edge of Obsidian we stand in the red stain of Sand Creek we stand with Captain Jack and Chief Joseph we stand in the echoing clang of the mission bell we stand in the ink of every congressional act we stand on the flecks of the vanishing bald eagle we stand within the shine of the black hills we stand on the edge of the Rio Grande, Colorado, Feather and Yuba we stand in the tainted glimmery of the gold rush we still stand in the intention of federal intervention on behalf of Indians we stand within the breath of every commissioner on Indian affairs we stand within and without the walls of the interior department we stand beyond the muddy trail of tears and gnome cult we stand in blood frozen in historical snow we still stand on the top of the Statue of Liberty and Mount Rushmore we stand in the silhouette of the ghost dance we stand on the warped words of every executive order we still stand on the Indian Removal and Dawes Act we still stand in the hands of Anna May we stand on the rocky cliffs of Alcatraz we stand within the gills of salmon struggle we stand on the tilted steps of the Bureau of Indian Affairs we stand on either side of the Sierra we stand on the pavement of Hoover and Orville dams we stand within the memory of Richard Oaks and John Trudell we stand around the fire of ancient flames we stand within Redwood Cedar Oak and Sequoia we stand at the edge of the Atlantic and Pacific we stand on the skyline of Manhattan we stand at the base of the Sundance tree we stand within the circle walls of the roundhouse we stand in the texture of acorn mush we stand in the stitch of willow maple and redbud we still stand in the never ratified treaties of California we stand with every deliberate intention to be rid of us we still stand in the rippling sound of the cry song we stand next to the reorganization relocation and self-determination acts we stand with mule hoof tracks on our backs we stand with every native woman and man incarcerated we stand with each breath taken in the sweat lodge we stand with prayers of thanks and hope we stand within Cedar and Sage Shmoak we stand beneath blue sky sun moon and glimmering star wings we stand within the knowledge of the goodness we stand with the blessings of each day we still stand for the name of humanity we stand with rain and snow we stand with our standing rock relatives we stand