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Friday, August 15, 2014

The Grown men game

I see grown men playing Cowboys and Indians,
with grown man toys, like little boys.
I see them go "bang bang your dead" and put a bullet in the head,
and it makes me weep.
Pushing forward with tunnel visioned hate, tools of the state,
they go to their fate;
Fighting Indians who don't exist, with bullets that insist
on blowing brains out of people's heads
they don't see a human being until he's dead.
 
I am there. I am the Indian.
It is my legs that can't move. My terror that fills my heart.
That big boy toy is pointed at me.
I see the projectile come, come at me free.
I feel the pain. I feel the shame.
I feel the life slipping from me.
 
And I am the boy, playing with a man's toy
who is so caught up in the game I can't see Me.
Bombs seem like fireworks. Shooting like an arcade play.
The bombs rain on innocent women and children,
Intended for bad guys, they are just in the way.
For the shooters, can't let anything get in the way.
 
And in the minds of Cowboys and Indians
there is no good Injin except a dead Injin.
The engine of war has only enemies.
"Kill them anyway, children will grow up to be enemies."
"They aren't children, just miniature Indians."
In games the people playing Indians are having fun.
But for children playing with grown men toys, the dead have none.
 
Oh the parents will tell you;
the "indians" are liars.
"all they want to do is kill."
"or take over the world"
"or take all our land."
... and they'll never understand.
 
But it's a lie
who is a cowboy and who is an Indian
is entirely arbitrary.
One moment the cowboy is on one side.
The next the other side is playing cowboy.
All combatants see themselves as cowboys
And their enemies as dead Indians.
 
And I see someone's brains splattered on the ground!
And I weep for both Cowboys and Indians
playing the grown men game
 

Christopher H. Holte, 8/15/2014

This one is meant to be read loud and didactic!

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