Tell ’em we wrote the law. Tell ’em we heard the call. 54, 40 or fight— in the darkness, we’ll shine a light. A manifest destiny pioneered for our posterity. Ocean to ocean, God gave us this great land and crowned our good with nationhood and arms fit to extend. Let anyone who comes unto our shores, apprehend the guiding hand of providence upon us. The guiding hand of providence upon us. The guiding hand of providence upon us.

The Cheyenne River flows and the cherry blossom grows in the nighttime. We were all asleep in the old Dakota heat in the nighttime, in the nighttime. Heaven shook her frown as the coyotes ran to ground for to bed down, Our courage convalesced on our mother’s heavy breast; she wore a white gown; her skin was light brown. And she put on a show, you know, with the iridescent glow and the heart of a buffalo. And she beat the drum away with a steady beat and sway as she shouted a hoka hey. She sang a good song as she danced along, barefoot in the prairie dawn many years before the Indian wars. Hiawatha sang as Iktomi played his games in the daytime, And we mistook him for a man as he vanished into sand in the dry land by the Cheyenne. There’s something in the stare and the subtle debonair of a young man. A choker on the throat, a breastplate made of bone, and a green stone behind his pony’s ear. And he put on a show, you know, with the iridescent glow and the heart of a buffalo. And he beat the drum away with a steady beat and sway as he shouted a hoka hey. He sang a good song, and he danced along, barefoot in the prairie dawn many years before the Indian wars. Sacred is the gaze of the men who knew the days of the old lands. Their churches in the hills, and gold beneath their heels: it was asleep, then stirred by a steel drill. Lacking an excuse but wanting for the truth of how a son came, what grandfather sang was the missionaries’ bane—what a loud clang, and such a damn shame. ’Cause we put on a show, you know, with the iridescent glow and the heart of a buffalo. And we beat the drum away with a steady beat and sway as we shouted a hoka hey. We sang a good song, and we danced along, barefoot in the prairie dawn. It was many years before the Indian war. Everybody knows that the cherry blossom grows in the nighttime. And everybody sleeps as God shuffles his feet at the right time, at the right time. And he put on a show, you know …

I’ve worked real steadily to put 1890 so far behind me, but I still see Indians running from Hotchkiss guns. So I give confession now, ’cause I’m never sure somehow that I will be here to see the morning sun as it rises over Washington. December 29th: we had the ends in sight. The ground was lily-white, but Oh, the earth was shaking with ghost dancers all around. We’ll quiet ’em down, boys, we’ll quiet ’em down. Aladdin’s castle had descended, and the flag showed all the glory of a kingdom fat and lazy with a genie at our command. “The Indian land, please, the Indian land.” The war had been dragging on 200 summers strong. Our only gospel was “Start the century cleanly; avenge the Big Horn; avenge the time; for being born, for being blind.” The famous Battery E, the first artillery, the 7th Cavalry, and what was left of Custer’s boys, four Hotchkiss guns—killing machines, the likes of which they never had seen. We had orders to disarm ’em, round ’em up, and then transport ’em outside the zone of army operations. Spotted Elk, 230 men, 120 women and kids. I was never sure what happened. They said an Indian started dancing, and a deaf man wouldn’t give up a rifle he’d paid a good price for. As things went south down in the camp, a gun went off, and that was it. Who knows who fired first. Damned if we weren’t all battle-thirsty; a flag of truce raised, but who of us really cared? We shot ’em there; we shot ’em dead. I’m dropping ’em still inside my head. I saw the women run, their children holding on. I saw a mother whose baby continued nursing in the bloody snow after she’d gone. It continued on, it continued on. I pulled my hammer back just to get another crack in. The clouds rolled back, and the heavens’ mouth was opened. And I heard a cry from up above. It shriveled me up; god, it shriveled me up. After that, I left the Army, and very quickly lost my money and spent some time seeking for my repentance. And I’ve sought it in tears, and I’ve sought it in praying. I’ve sought it some years, and so I think it’s worth saying I never figured out what this was all about—life and death and forgiveness or the reasons that lightning strikes, but it ain’t struck me. Perhaps that’s hell; perhaps I’ll see. Perhaps these many hours spanning between then and now have mostly served to make my spirit ready to see that Judge. But what could that mean when justice comes for something filthy as me? And still I hear the words rumbling ’cross this land of ours. And Father of all people, I had hoped you would be able—before I go, before I dare—what did it mean, what I heard out there?

POW WOW We drove to the pow wow. We talked for an hour in the car before we went in. You were wearing your wolf shirt, black with sparkles and the eyes of the noble beast. You were dancing like a demon; you were out on the floor with grass and leather digging at your hips, sweating bullets like a boy in his morning sheets. You drank like a fiend when you got home, but you ain’t gotta drink to feel like shit. You ain’t gotta drink to feel like this. We drove up the dinosaur’s tail. We fought on the ledge ’til the cops made us move on. And so we walked up the old creek, and we were cursing like some sailors drunk on an on-shore leave. You’d been dancing like a demon; you’d been out on the floor with grass and leather digging at your hips, sweating bullets like a boy in his morning sheets. But you drank like a fiend when you got home, but you ain’t gotta drink to feel like shit. You ain’t gotta drink to feel like this. BROTHER Brother, I know what you’ve come here for, so you can just rest assured we all leave our shit at the door. And it’s alright; just pass your brother the peace pipe. Let me lend a hand; let me take stab and put a few of these ghosts into bed. And we’ve come here riding on some windstorms early on a Sunday morning with easy on the mind and peaceful on the breath. So if you’re able, sit and sup at your brother’s table and lend an eye to the changing day. The ice is paper-thin, and enemies are becoming friends. At the carnival, I’ve seen some things that’ll change your mind about the love in a father’s eyes as he turns his back on his son. ’Cause sometimes it’s not the blood that binds. I’ve seen water turn to blood. I’ve seen water turn to wine. And still we come here. Been riding on some windstorms early on a Sunday morning with easy on the mind and peaceful on the breath. So if you’re able, just sit and sup at your brother’s table and lend your eye to the changing day. The ice is paper-thin, and enemies are becoming friends.

Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor.

The year of 1830 is where my tale begins. The southeastern mountains started giving gold, and then, with elbow room for the pickin’ growing mighty slim, the United States stretched out its great arms again over the Indians. President Andrew Jackson signed it into law with pen. The Indian Removal Act almost guaranteed an end, but the government must peacefully negotiate with them. If the Indians refuse, the contingency plan is kick ’em off the land. The Cherokee, Seminole, Chickasaw, the Choctaw, and Creek— you had five civilized tribes living east of the Mississippi. Even with assimilation, the price would be too steep; for twenty-some million acres, you lay down; you kiss the devil’s boot heels. So thus began the tedious burden of removal while treaty rights and Supreme Court rulings were denied and refused. You know, John Marshall’s court declared we must abide by what we swore. Jackson said, “In the inevitability of progress, son, your decisions here are stillborn.” So progress is what he cited as the reason for migration. To save them from extinction, we must remove them from their nation. Their rights do not compare with the visions of so many. Jackson said, “My gospel should be plenty to get my face on the $20.” By 1838, the task had fallen to Van Buren. But nothing could’ve changed the same god they had been serving. They coerced some into signing; but the principal chief, he never signed it. But there was nothing to be done once the Feds had it in writing. So little bit by little bit, as it is with most great evils, their people have been sacrificed upon civilization’s table. From the city to the state, and from the state across the country, there’s blood upon this land, and there’s a curse upon the centuries. And it shames me when I think of how my nation still refuses to take upon their fathers’ guilt and repent for these abuses. We still laud the names of Jackson, Sherman, Washington, and Lincoln, While we demonize the names of men who’ve done much lesser evils. Let’s not forget: the game in which we play’s a game of inches. Life is short, life is long; it all depends on who’s the victim. And everything we say or do, you know, may still be used against us when the Judge of every nation calls upon their blood to witness. The cry from the death march was so fierce. After 200 years, we still call it the Trail of Tears. One Georgia soldier looking back recalled it was the cruelest business that he ever saw. In record cold and winter months, they left. Men, women, and children walked a thousand miles into the West. Some 13,000 Cherokee moved on. Some 4,000 died between Tennessee and Oklahoma. And it won’t be made right until the day the land is restored, and their dead are raised from the grave.

A stone’s throw, a quarter-mile to the field, where diamonds grow, Horace Mann waits up the hill. Fireworks, that’s why we’ve come higher than the prairie sun. I found you lying in a field alone, in white socks, shoeless, stained with strawberries. Upon your back, you’d shaved your head the night before. In disregard, your watch beside you ticking still. Life is hard for poor men. White lines, we breathe them in. I’ll join you staring at the summer sky of dodger blue, with cottonwood that falls like snow. In buckets full, baseballs fly like ribboned geese. All red and white, they fall to earth like rocket ships on us below as diamonds grow between our toes, like strawberries in South Dakota summertime. Oh, it’s like heroin, these cannon blasts rushing through my brain. There’s a fortune here a quarter-mile from our home. And when we die, they’ll plant our bodies in a field like Horace Mann that we might bless the orphan child. And in years to come, if they should raise a marble there, in fire etched: “An ebenezer to the young.” And white lines, they’ll breathe them in like you and I did. There’s a fortune here in South Dakota summertime. / And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love. Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

Gather round, tell to me all the things you want to see. If you want me, you know where to find me: In the air, in the sea, or in the dirt where life is made. Spirit sees as an eagle in the sky sees. Morning comes, rooster crows and asks the whole world to sing. Spirit flows from his voice into our voice. In the middle of the day, the sun gives heat to warm us. Spirit burns from his heart into our heart. At evening as the mill is turned, wind will work to crush the grain. Spirit blows from vane to vane to feed us. River runs through the night from the land into the sea. Spirit moves us and gives to us to drink. Soul of man—partly hid, partly for the world to see— Spirit dwells here more than anywhere. Gather round, tell to me all the things you want to see. If you want me, you know where to find me.

The mountainside is burning down. In the dead of night, it’s all around us. Ashes fall upon my house in flurries white like snow at Christmas. We run outside and fix our eyes on an orange sky at 1:00 a.m. Mother nature has come to us with a vengeance and a one-track mind. She will not let you go. She will not let you stay. The neighbors will be staying with their families. There is a gentleman who will not leave his father’s home. I cannot make him; it is all he’s known. Should the city fall, the churches will be set ablaze Oh, but how amazing, as drunks and priests drag businessmen and deputies from burning buildings. Should the dam break, as in our fathers’ day, to flood this town, oh, we’d welcome it now The neighbors will be staying with their families. There is an Indian who will not leave his father’s home. I will not make him; it is all he’s known. How can you make him? It is all he’s known.

Dear God, sister saver, she’s the image of my faith. Shall I prod to ask a favor? My sister’s body for to save. From the ash, she drew a sabre— a dying body, a living word. Should she die beneath your labors, help me see my sister cured. But it’s never easy. The people are so many, and every story is somehow misunderstood Between what I’m feeling and what I’ll be doing, make it a pleasure yo do what You will and what I should. Dear God, hammer swinger you swung so hard you buried him. And from the prairie, there came a singer, this guitar-picking Indian. Church to church, outside the restroom, Preaching from his Walmart bench. Some people never know a stranger; their funeral crowds are evidence. But it’s never easy. The people are so many, and every story is somehow misunderstood. Between what I’m feeling and what I’ll be doing, make it a pleasure to do what You will and what I should. Dear God, repossessor, all the memories that I have on photographs inside my dresser— but pictures just obscure the past. Who’s to say who will be named, a goat to blame or a sheep to save? I asked him, “What’ll it take to curb this evil?” He said, “Jesus is the only way.” And he said: It’s never easy. The people are so many, and every story is somehow misunderstood. Between what we’re feeling and what we’ll be doing, make it our pleasure to do what You will and what we should.

Will we tell Him we know His law? Will we tell Him we heard His call? 54, 40 or fight— man, I’m beginning to see the light. What is our destiny? I fear it ends at the bottom of the sea. Ocean to ocean, God gave us to the land. You can’t despise God’s children and still serve the son of man. Let anyone who comes unto our shores apprehend the burden of repentance that’s upon us and the gift of forgiveness laid upon us and the blood of salvation poured out upon us.