Road Side Gas Stop, Black Hills, South Dakotaby Ken Meisel The girl with the scar across her face from the fire is singing at the top of her lungs about the policies of the broken arrow. How the sacred pipe was brought back to the people by White Buffalo Woman after years of its absence because there had been human sacrifice and the gasolining of the feminine principle. All this in Rapid City, South Dakota, where you can see the sacred Buffalo hoarding something of their mystery in silence amongst the Black Hills. I want to howl for the policy of the broken arrow, here at the counter of the Big D Oil Co. where I see the boy flipping his brother off as they page through motor cross magazines while their white daddy in his Stetson juices up the big F-150, takes a big swig off the liquor bottle in his hand, and he smacks their mother across her forehead not once, but three times, after she pulls open his hunting jacket to get the cigarettes they share. I want to howl at the top of my lungs for this one act of ceremonial love and affection between them, sing for their sacred tobacco, the hoop dance they do for Wakan Tanka, for love of the poisoned lung, for love of the medicine dance of self disgust and the tablets they buy for someone’s nausea. I want to sing for the girl who has a scar on her face as she rocks by herself holding Wakan Tanka’s power, sing for White Buffalo Woman and her sacred pipe, sing for the rusted F-150 and the snow tires already clanging beneath it across the exhausted blacktop. I want to sing for the burned out liability of people who don’t give a shit. Sing loudly for the Black Hills surrounding us and the pine piedmont where up road these people live. Sing for the girl rocking herself to Wakan Tanka and to White Buffalo Woman bringing blessings of beauty. I want to sing for the trailer park and the medicine wheel that it is, sing for the praising of valued items they break in crowded quarters, bacon grease and splattered coffee spread like engine oil across the kitchen counter. I want to sing for the doorway that is opened, sing for the bundle of child-woman holding her belly like it is sacred, sing for the girl with the scar on her face rocking to Wakan Tanka’s power and to White Buffalo Woman’s sacred pipe. I want to sing for the rifles and guns in their trailer home and all the angry buffalo roaming in it, and sing for their fifteen year old daughter, alive and under the bed sheets, a broken arrow, sick to her stomach, and pregnant. |