I'm in the field, standing between a
post-scripted past and a paralyzed
future. Shucked like corn, tricked,
hoodwinked - brought back to an island,
letter-by-letter, thirty four letters over
fifteen years, to an island that is no
longer mine. Sons cry for me, house-
niggers boss me, but me? I'm
free. Free to watch the show-all American
abortions and race train wrecks. Free to
love my girl, free to drink warm beer, free
to be colonized, free to care for no better.
I have my place - and, within that, within
good graces and valor and obediance, that
place is home. I am native, nipa-hutted,
and no non-native's gonna colonize
this head of mine. When I go, it'll be
in the sun, whiteness thrown off like
a soiled tee, warm beer in my hand, on
my island. I am the horseman in the
swamp and, eventually, the hill people,
the people who gate, will see that I
ain't blind - and sure ain't dumb.
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