We don't know which ways 
our ancestry encodes itself in our DNA. 
When our elders whisper to us in an aching we can't comprehend, 
yet feel in our bones,
It is only when we are STILL enough ... we can  hear them call us home. 
Our western religion, given its boundaries, guides our beliefs against thoughts so profound - we 
neglect to draw congruencies with the notion of "past lives" 
that we turn a blind eye to what we FEEL inside - 
written across a twisting double helix.
I don't have proof ...
I'm just sayin' ... I feel it. 

The sound of my fathers native tongue, spoken in a crowd 
begins to take on a melodic sound. 
A song so familiar, as one that I have always heard. 
I have memorized the melody ... but I don't know the words. 

Whereas ... 

my "American" would have me SCOFF at the proof,
That my bloodline carries an indigenous root. 
Alignment to roots and the ground which they are planted, 
And my bodies obvious yield
and wield of the planets. 
My Blackfoot, my first American, 
my mothers impression ... 
has me barefoot and braided and and burning sage & inscents and 

I can't quite make sense of 
this culminated forthcoming 
my lineage diaspora ... 
displaced and unbecoming. 

No home for the "mixy"
No pot for this gumbo 
I AM the American Dream
a nightmare become so
embodied in a mixed representation ...

first generation 

and not a single fucking BOX to be placed in. 

I call forth ona bugeisha, 
I call forth Great Plains. 
I call forth Sicily and the Moores from whence they came,
I call forth Ichi ban, Sho Chan &
siksika in my veins ... 
and every patchwork of European that this fair skin stakes claim.
I call it forth. 

and I'm creating my own tribe. 
In the name of those past
In the name of those alive ...

we are the living representation of love and acceptance
and not at ALL repentant ... 
We are embodied remembrance.

We are dna encoded reincarnation... 
We are a nation 
of standing ovations.