And this last poem is called Harlem Montana--
Just Off the Reservation.
The reservation is the Fort Belknap Reservation
where my folks live.
And Harlem is one of those towns just off the reservation
that almost everybody knows about how bigoted and racist
it is and how they always welcome Indians
to come spend their money there, but not to really
be part of the community.
So that's the kind of town Harlem is.
Let's see.
There are no references.
There's one reference to Hutterites here.
They're a religious group.
They live in colonies throughout Montana
and other places in the West.
There's one north of Harlem.
And people don't like them, because they're good farmers,
and they've got good equipment.
And people think they're kind of funny, kind of eccentric,
because they live alone without much contact
with the outside world.
And they don't pay taxes, which really makes people mad.
So that's the only reference in this poem
that you might need to know.
We need no runners here.
Booze is law, and all the Indians
drink in the best tavern.
Money is free if you're poor enough.
Disgusted, busted whites are running
for office in this town.
The constable, a local farmer, plants
the jail with wild, raven-haired stiffs who beg just one more
drink.
One drunk, a former Methodist, becomes a saint
in the Indian church, bugs the plaster man
on the cross with snakes.
If his knuckles broke, he'd see those women
wail the graves goodbye.
Goodbye, goodbye, Harlem on the rocks,
so bigoted you forget the latest joke.
So lonely you'd welcome a battalion of Turks
to rule your women.
What you don't know, what you will never
know or want to learn--
Turks aren't white.
Turks are olive, unwelcome, alive in any town.
Turks would use your one dingy park
to declare a need for loot.
Turks say bring it, step quickly, laid down and dead.
Here we are when men were nice.
This photo, hung in the New England hotel lobby,
shows them nicer than pie, agreeable to the warring bands
of redskins who demanded protection
money for the price of food.
Now only Hutterites out north are nice.
We hate them.
They are tough, and their crops are always good.
We accuse them of idiocy and believe their belief all wrong.
Harlem, your hotel is overnamed.
Your children are raggedy-assed.
But you go on.
Survive the bad food from the two cafes,
and peddle your hate for the wild who bring you money.
When you die, if you die, will you
remember the three young bucks who shot the grocery up, locked
themselves in, and cried for days, "We're rich, help us.
Oh, God, we're rich."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you very much.