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35 Portland, s I walk barefoot on the hot cement, downtown heat spews a rotten scent, with hair long, eagle feather tied tight, and bone chocker, fringed vest, bright beads, hey cousin, spare a dime? Toss it here. Yellow jacket? Blue Cross? Sure. Buy a lid for ten bucks, super groovy, and stoned watching Soldier Blue movie, crying at the song by Buffy St. Marie, a sense of pride, she’s Cree like me. Custer died in an arrow shirt, that’s Indian Power; Lizzie waits in the fort’s phallus shaped tower. The treaty said “as long as the grass grows,” and BIA means kiss my Big Indian Ass. Wounded Knee ’73, the taking of Alcatraz, fishing rights, the Army engineers, damned the mighty river, no salmon here at Cooks Landing in Washington. The Coast Guard rammed the elders’ tiny fishing boats, and BIA stands for Boss Indians Around. Don’t rock the boat, shut up, don’t make a sound. Honky go home! Go home and pack, give us our land back, just give it back. Hell no we won’t go! Tricky Dicky, make love not war, and I’m a hippy living in a commune, stoned on free love morning noon and night blowing smoke above the barn where I’m high on sweet goat’s breath and leading anti-war marches, no more death. Peace sign and flower power, a daisy for your gun, tattered jeans, hiking boots, keep on truckin’, peace bro, peacefully pissed off and the body bag 36 count grows, commune men flee to Canada. We march for women’s liberation, black power Dashiki’s flow, Gay liberation, a pretty flower. Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Ramah, Hare Ramah Ramah, Ramah. God is a crutch. Smoke a bowl? groovy, far-out, can you dig it, can you roll a joint? I’m getting low on my stash, we’re marching, marching to get our heads bashed. Two white men, suits and ties, standing behind me: Barefoot and feathers, she must be an Indian. ...

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