S. Asher Sund
 
 

 

          NATIVE LAND
 

Spring first arrives in the shop windows

along the main strip in town. In the park

itís still mushy and wet,

and not far from where

the outpatients will try to sell me

nuggets and buds, where young Freud

in the restroom is smoking his crack,

where the pigeons are getting in position

for their interpretative dance, I read

in the cement: INDIAN CAMPS

                      PRIOR TO 1845. In fact

not far from where I find an Indian man

passed out in his wheelchair, missing

the lower end

of his right leg. And just in case

we should yield to the wrong ideal

and begin picking broken cigarettes

off the street, several flags

are flying here. I count four. No,

five. Donít get me wrong, Iím not unpatriotic:

   I believe in life, liberty and the pursuit of land.

   I believe this Ferris Wheel will not break

mid-ride

and dump me to the ground.

   I believe in following the tight piece of ass.

   I believe when you flush the toilet, shit

simply disappears.

   I believe the headless mannequins

in the windows will teach us what to wear

when the birds return. And just in case

we should yield to the wrong ideal,

behind them somewhere, poised

in the inner rooms,

are their headless mannequin surgeons

with jackhammers and gypsy spoons.

   I believe

itís too early in the season to get excited,

too many games left to be played,

but when the Indians get sober,

there will be hell to pay.

   When the fires are lit,

when these feathers are plucked,

when men sprout new legs and step softly

through store window displays.

Copyright © 2003 S. Asher Sund.  All Rights Reserved.

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