 I cannot go a day without thinking about my brothers and sisters out there in Standing Rock, you know. And we, water is a human right. Yes it is. And I just read today that Nestle is, you know, privatizing water in Wisconsin or whatever they're going to build their plant. Michigan, yeah, they're privatizing, they're buying up the water there. And pretty soon they'll be privatizing the air we breathe, you know. It's not too absurd. So do whatever you can to help my brothers and sisters out there in Standing Rock because this is going to be a cue. Thank you. And so this is the ode to Standing Rock. I'm starting with a brief quote from Sitting Bull. Bring the mic down, Jenny. Oh, okay, here we go. The nation is like a spring-fresh-it. It overruns its banks and destroys all who are in its path, Sitting Bull. Long after the dinosaurs, long after the glaciers, long after the forests and jungles, long after the aurora borealis is glancing off the sacred hoop, dropped like coiled fetuses in native girls' wombs, long after the goodwill crumbling rezzes and barrios of fast foods and booze, long after the graffiti rants shop-lifted dreams and outlaw miscarriages, long after the rising seas wash the citadels of broken promises and stolen victories into pillars of salt, standing rock warriors rise. The buffalo herd has returned. The soaring eagle has landed. The nations unite against the pillaging snake of greed and theft that leaves no trace of river, grass, or life. Long after their banks turn to barnacles, long after their monuments turn to ash, long after their pipelines turn to piss, long after their politics and their wars, long after their broken treaties and promises, long after the saints and sinners black and white winners take all, long after their historians and their histories shrivel and cease to repeat themselves, we will say there is no man's face I remember. This is my country. This is my mouth screaming across the divide of asparagus fields and highways, sucking grapes off virgin vines and brown hands. This is my face, a burning forest howling back at you in a fig of olive trees left in an orchard of dreams. And this is my body granting its own entry across a harvest of stones and bullets. Every death they say is the first death. Beneath each stone and milagro is a fleeting hope, a notion 3,000 years old of arrival. To go away is to come back to oneself, to return to the suckling dawn of grass and butterflies. The weight of our bones will be carried by the winds. The weight of water will be contained in our thirst. Peace is just an idea and exiles image of the absolute. What is love my friend? I wish I could bring you purple violets to commemorate the death of hatred. But alas, I'm no match for this fence of barbed wire and I am 20 years older than hope. This is my war and it is yours. Also, I will die as American as you. Peace is my country screaming across the divide of blood and sky. Thank you. Thank you.