A truly, bizarre dream last night.

Bizarre.

I dreamed that my entire family from years past, were all assembled in some worship service.
But we were all widely spaced out in that great hall.
I was sitting next to my beloved grandfather. My parents were two or three pews in front of us.
My cousins and uncles and aunts were on the front pew of that gathering.
My cousin Phillip was both the speaker and seated in that front row.

While my grandfather and I spoke privately between ourselves,
a nurse burst into that room, carrying a pair of human lungs.
While I understood they were lungs, they looked like a big piece of pork. Meat.

Then suddenly, I knew that those lungs were meant for my grandfather, for a transplant to save his life.
Then suddenly, she dropped those lungs onto the floor.
I leapt up and grabbed up those lungs, and began running to a nearby hospital,
two blocks away,
where I knew that my grandfather was waiting for his transplant. And save his life.

I ran, carrying these organs along a long, grey, treeless street,
past a huge hotel, to the intended building.
Carrying those lungs, I got lost in the hotel instead.

My grandfather 'Frosty' died of emphysema, in 1985. But
It was sure comforting to see, to sit and to talk with him again,
there in that church.

I just returned from a special place, where last year today,I met my little brother.
Uh, I didn't meet him HERE, but we became best/of/friends at this relatively, altitudinous, lofty, skinney-piney spot.

Dear brother, Oohgah Tleh,

Well, it's been awhile since we were together. Though we spoke with each other on the phone this week TWICE, I still wanted to go up and consecrate our friendship today, where we'd once sat and thought and talked much together.

For what it's worth, I found in the underbrush, then brought home, a ceramic, green bowl, of mine, which you had since at least last June or July.I hope that you remain happy in your service to man, at SubWay® Sandwiches of FW/TX.********This afternoon, I sat alone, where you and I had sathalf-a-hundred times earlier last year-Today, along the hilltop above Hwy. 1, amid the skinny Pines,Where I ran amuk once at 3 AM, last summer in the darkness to impress you.Remember?? It scared you, instead. That scar on your right cheekbone... Remember that sad and fateful night for us?Today, I only felt lonliness, the sadness of your absence,all because of your personal insanity.I drank three beers out there, in 'Our' place, and drained two for you onto that smooth rock where you'd once sat, along/aside me, Oohgat Leh.In that way, I intended to honor you...And your memory within me. *******Until I walked back to the O.M.R. parking lot, and again needed to piss.I entered the men's public bathroom, where I'd never been before, but you evidently had-that's when I recognized your handwriting(s) on its stalls' walls,old, dated and faded as it was,On the men's stalls' walls,offering invitations for oral sex on the weekends. ***That Broke My Heart, that BROKE my heart,THAT broke MY heart IN HALF, Oohgah Tleh, Seeing that, Recognizing that.Since I'd just been remembering you, my dear friend,near Your, Our first campsite there-Tears, and tears and tears flow now from my eyes-- Why, why why did you never confide in me, little Brother?Could I have eased your pain then?YOUR recognizable handwriting, which I've seen on dozens of documentswhen you were here, -many in my possession still--and would know instantly,were a utter shock to see on a rural bathroom stall wall.Signs, signals like our shaped twigs and whistles we'd share in the night air to alert each other,Once.Elsewhere,Otherwise.FarAway.
Dammit.

Ya want to know what it is like, to be an easily identifiable minority in these United States?But not to be Black?Or Latino? Or Asian?
It is to suffer your unrelenting, innocent jokes- "This your little papoose?" "What's in your medicine bag- POT?" or worst, "Is that your Squaw?"
The endless, "well, I've got a little Indian in me, too-" remarks.
Having to hear one hundred million, "Cowboys and Indians"-game stories of your youths.
And yes, I CAN make it rain. Why, can't you?
I tire so easily of you and your stories, to be honest. You wannabes. You nominal, casual racists.You who seem so eager to abandon your own race for momentary inclusion within mine.
You forget meeting me too quickly, too easily dismissing me. Because I am just an Indian. I feel your dismissal of me deep, in my soul.
We fight within ourselves, the urge to dismiss you in the same way. But we can't.We're just Indians, afterall, and subject to your beneficence.To many "Americans", we are children, grown up children. And talked to, as such;treated as such. Trusted as such.
Never mind that I have a college degree or a superior English vocabulary, as many of my brethren also have; or even, that a full One-third of these United States have Indian names, from 'Arkansas' to 'Illinois' to 'Wyoming'.We have to learn the White history of this nation; you MAY accidentally hear of ours, but only in passing.
Or momentarily seen, in Hollywood's, White-directed/edited films.
And now, our country is being given away. Piece by piece, bit by bit.Again.To illegal immigrants who haven't got the balls to fight within their own nations, but instead will work for 2-bucks-less per hour than anyone else,-- because you've made it so damn easy for them to enter here, now.
Rather than work to rehabilitate your Red friends, your Red forebearers, who need the work so badly,you just open up the floodgates to your dinted and diminished, American dream workplace.
The revolution in this country which I hope for, is NOT the one which you do.Our grievance is far older than yours. Or that of the Blacks.