Garry Gottfriedson

I certainly know who I am . . . I can get away with being politically incorrect. I am the ambassador to First Nations’ poetic expressions & as Kinsella pompously put it straight “I have the license to do so.” what a magical way to escape tyranny! just like Trudeau & Chrétien hiding beneath cowboy hats nevertheless & back to the point, call me cowboy call me First Nations call me aboriginal call me native call me chug call me skin if you must, but never call me Indian. I call myself that! & if you feel guilty when I say so, this is not about postcolonial rhetoric it is about an identity crisis

Where do you want my heart now? Placed next to yours on your pale skin so that I will fall in love with your sweaty pain I have heard your bones crack the dry cement that leafed the frenzied spirit within I witnessed its wildness escape into your body screaming kissy words while your fingers plucked at my guitar your eyes were Koyoti’s & Ska-la-la’s trying to rip a path to my soul & I froze there in my manly state knowing there’s nothing that I can do