Just so, you don't think that the only thing I write about
is Indians.
In fact, I only write them, about them
maybe one quarter of the time.
I'd like to read you a sort of a non-indian poem.
This poem is called "The World's Only Corn Palace."
And I don't know if you're familiar with the world's
only corn palace.
But it's in South Dakota, Mitchell, South Dakota
to be exact.
And it's kind of a strange place if you've never been there.
And I have never been there.
But this girl who is a friend of mine, grew up there
and she sent me a postcard.
On which was the world's only corn palace.
And it was a very, kind of garish building.
There were all kinds of murals painted
by some long forgotten artist, I'm sure.
And it has minarets and towers and they're all
taught by the American flag.
And so, I spent several days looking at this.
"The World's Only Corn Palace."
I tacked it up above my desk looking at it
and hoping that I could write a poem about this.
And I finally did write a poem called "The World's Only Corn
Palace."
And the poem is not about the world's only corn palace.
[LAUGHTER]
But I couldn't help use the title.
The poem's about something else.
[LAUGHTER]
So, this poem is called "The World's Only Corn Palace."
[LAUGHTER]
I should mention something else.
It's a poem about poets.
So, the corn fits right in.
They came with knives and sticks.
No one called, no one reminded the wild man
of his right to scream.
To fall sobbing to his knees.
With sticks they came.
This pack, so bent on killing all his bones.
Some looked away.
Others in their throats began to laugh.
Not loud, but blue.
A winter blue that followed mongrels out the door.
With knives, those killers carved initials on his heart,
till his eyes grew white with wonder.
Thunderbird came heavy on our heads.
Too much of a good thing can spoil it for poets, you said.
I agreed.
Down by the river, we sang sad tunes
and oh the stars were bright.
That melancholy night.