The Forefathers.

There is no beginning to this poem because there is no beginning to anything that lives.

Life never stops, though the hands of the empire spreads those myths.

Life never stops.

Once we die we dissolve back into the uterus of the voluptuous mother, 

where we melt into the endless juices of her and her sumptuous lovers.

To be born again.

We will crawl back into this place through the worms and the soil, and the sins of our fathers against this world shall be our burden of toil.

We are the colonizers.  The blood that runs through my veins is the same blood that pumped through the arms of pioneers who ripped up the camas and the biscuit roots and the tiger lilies, who spent hot summer days building fences to make claims on wild gardens that were not theirs to take.  They could not even see the garden of eden they believed.  Blind farmers who tore apart the nations of bitter roots and wild rice and yampah, with steel teeth swallowing life swallowing food swallowing ancestors.  Scared men who beat their women and beat their children and whose own beating heart scared the shit out of them.  Men who worshipped a starving god who demanded domination of anything wild, everything fertile, and everything erotic.  Men who were taught to hate the swelling of their lusty loins when wild, beautiful things awoke their animalistic longings, and who struggled to dominate all things feminine because the power our our bodies drowns domination in inescapable, sensual, wonderful sex.