My Blood in Your Hands (An Angry Cow Haiku)

Waiting for my death

In a line without escape

Enjoy your fucking burger

11 Aug 2019

Justice Was Lost in Central Park

Beaten, coerced 

into confessions 

Confessions that did not, 

could not, 

match the reality 

Justice didn’t waste time 

as the city 

called for vengeance 

She found five 

easy targets upon whom 

to direct the city’s wrath 

Oh, Justice has a cane 

but it is not 

because she is blind 

Her cane has 

other purposes 

With strong, swift blows, 

Justice took a swing 

at five innocent boys 

When the last strike had landed, 

the innocence of childhood 

was smashed into pieces, 

their hope for the future 

locked tightly behind bars 

Bars that would 

hold them and scar them 

for six to fourteen years 

Justice, celebrating 

the job she had done 

providing five perfect scapegoats, 

contentedly patted her own back 

It took the attacker himself, 

more than a decade later, 

to set the record straight 

Innocence was never recaptured, 

years were never returned, 

the harm could not be undone 

If only Justice had bothered 

putting down her cane 

and opening her eyes 

in 1989 

29 Nov 2019

Watch the video (ft. Blak Reign and Adam Spells)

Waiting For the Knife

Be happy,

they tell me,

while we wait 

for the knife

Piles of food

dumped in

front of us

to fatten us

for the knife

Our children

have disappeared

They’ve already 

met the knife

Our babies’ milk

is taken from us

Until it slows,

then the knife

So many of us

packed together

in line 

for the knife

But be happy,

they tell me

while I wait

for the knife

2 Oct 2019

When The Orders Were Inhumane, He Chose to be Human

A brutal account, featuring the words of Captain Silas Soule

They declared their intention 

to massacre the friendly Indians 

camped on Sand Creek 

I was indignant 

as you would have been 

were you here 

Any man who would 

take part in the murders, 

knowing the circumstances we did, 

was a low lived cowardly 

son of a bitch 

Chiv and all hands 

swore they would hang me 

before they moved camp, 

but I stuck it out 

Lieut. Wilson cut off their herd, 

made a circle to the rear, 

two hundred yards from the village, 

opened fire 

Poor Old John Smith 

and Louderbeck ran out 

with white flags 

I heard an officer say 

that Old Smith 

and anyone who 

sympathized with Indians 

ought to be killed 

and now was 

a good time to do it 

I refused to fire 

and swore none 

but a coward would, 

for by this time 

hundreds of women and children 

were coming towards us, 

getting on their knees 

for mercy 

Anthony shouted, 

“kill the sons of bitches” 

The battery came up in our rear, 

and opened on them 

No organization among our troops, 

they were a perfect mob 

My company was the only one 

that kept their formation, 

and we did not fire a shot 

The massacre lasted 

six or eight hours, 

and a good many Indians escaped 

It was hard to see 

little children on their knees 

have their brains beat out 

by men professing to be civilized 

One squaw was wounded 

and a fellow took a hatchet 

to finish her, 

he cut one arm off, 

and held the other 

with one hand and 

dashed the hatchet 

through her brain 

One squaw with her two children, 

on their knees, 

begging for their lives 

of a dozen soldiers, 

within ten feet of them 

all firing 

When one succeeded 

in hitting the squaw in the thigh, 

she took a knife, 

cut the throats of both children, 

then killed herself 

One Old Squaw 

hung herself 

in the lodge, 

not enough room 

for her to hang, 

she held up her knees, 

choked herself to death 

I saw two Indians 

hold one anothers hands, 

chased until they were exhausted, 

when they kneeled down, 

clasped each other 

around the neck, 

and both were shot together 

Our best Indians killed, 

Black Kettle, One Eye, 

Minnemic, Left Hand 

White Antelope, War Bonnet, 

and a number of others 

had ears and privates cut off 

Squaws snatches 

were cut out for trophies 

You would think it impossible 

for white men to butcher 

and mutilate human beings 

as they did there, 

but every word 

I have told you 

is the truth, 

which they do not deny 

Chivington has gone to Washington 

to be made a General, I suppose 

I spent New Year’s day 

on the battle ground 

counting dead Indians, 

One hundred thirty killed, 

most women and children, 

all of them scalped 

2 Dec 2019

*All words are from Soule’s letters to his mother and Major Ned Wynkoop. Some words were trimmed for poetic purposes, none added. Captain Soule was murdered two months after testifying before an Army commission in Colorado as a witness to the atrocities.

The Blood Seeped into Sand Creek

When the last dust settled, 

when the last blood spilled, 

nearly two hundred lay dead 

They were known and peaceful 

They were women and children, 

Arapaho and Cheyenne 

and the murderer 

was the U.S. Army 

Endless betrayal, 

more treaties ignored 

in the quest for their land 

and the thirst for their heads 

The ambushed, 

unsuspecting bodies 

had suffered the 

most vicious deaths 

Mutilated, murdered 

Scalps, fingers, genitals 

taken as trophies 

The savage we saw 

was simply 

our reflection 

in the mirror 

2 Dec 2019

Discussing Racism in America

But this is different

This time it’s not about race 

Wash, rinse, and repeat 

11 Dec 2019

Watch the poem performed with Danielle Nicole Nikki Dixon

Congratulations on Your Impeachment

We know it’s been 

bothering you

Numbers are 

the very thing

you most love 

to brag about

Inflated, incorrect,

alternative numbers

For years, 

you’ve had to 

distort numbers,

setting records

only in your head

Finally, sir, 

you set a record

without hyperbole,

without exaggeration,

without even a sharpie

You rose,

or should I say fell,

to the occasion

The honor is yours,

an unprecedented 

presidential accomplishment:

the most votes

in American history

Even, 

for your first time ever,

more votes than a Clinton

Celebrate your accomplishment,

Mr. President!

Take a vacation

in some far off place

Leavenworth 

sounds like a nice fit

20 Dec 2019

If Teachers Were Farmers

Her kindness 

was never 

questioned

everyone praised 

her love for 

her students

her gentle 

nurturing 

evident for 

weeks and weeks 

until her students’ 

bellies began 

pushing against 

the buttons 

of their clothes

properly fattened 

on the feed she 

provided 

She gave them each 

one final hug 

as she turned 

on the blades 

and lowered 

them inside 

The screams echoed, 

the tears fell, 

the blood spilled 

But it was, 

after all, 

only one bad day 

in the lives 

she had provided 

for them 

and how she 

loved them 

during their 

brief time 

on Earth 

She is proud 

of the food she made 

for others to enjoy

the people were hungry 

for the tender flesh 

that fell from their bones 

and were willing 

to call the process 

love

while opening 

their mouths and 

turning their eyes 

away 

21 Nov 2019