Buenos Dias Burqueño

This is for you
El Nuevo Burqueño
Who stutters at the question red or green
And who finds a sense of mysticism in the poor Indian walking down Central
And a tinkle of adventure in driving through the South Valley
We knew this day would come
We knew that this was not over
I don’t care that you are a Daughter of the American Revolution
(give me my freedom back)
It doesn’t interest me that your grandfather was an anthropologist in the Southwest
(give me my bones back)
I don’t give a fuck that your dad was Allen Ginsberg
(give me my words back)
And I know that it’s not your fault
It’s your ancestors
Fair enough
But I also know, like every good Indian
That you are not done yet
And I say Good Morning to the Third Wave of Colonizers
(if you want, I’ll give you your Morion back)
Good Morning to the next generation of Colonization
(or your musket, if that’s where you’re from)
But do not worry, I am not armed
I have no protection against your veil of progressivism
Feel free to ravage me
I cannot separate my body from my mind from my spirit from my land
And you have raped me with your audacity
With your questions
With your unbelievable willingness to search for something that is not yours
(give me my spirit back)
But I am not ashamed
At least our creation stories involved sex
I guess we really have been separated from the beginning
(I can give you your God back)
But I’ll humor you
And when you ask what my religion is I will take out a rock in exchange for twenty dollars and tell you that it will teach you all you need to know
When you ask me to say something in my language I will smile and tell you that I am not your puppet (in my language, of course)
And when you want to know how to go back to the old ways I will show you my uncle’s house with no water and tell you we never left
And some small part of the coyote mind will tell me to leave you there to see if you’ll survive
(you won’t)
But I don’t blame you for being curious
I understand your homelessness
And your desire to find something that will soak up your blood when you die
No, I blame your inability to say the word ‘respect’ in an old language
Maybe I will tell you that there is no word for faith or religion in Diné bizáád
There is only a way of life
And even then I know that you are not done yet
And sometimes I think that the only thing worse than your questions
Are your ideas on how to live a life
That is as old as the dirt you’re standing on
So please greet the day, Mr. New Colonizer
(and give me my name back)
Go get coffee and sit on the patio and lurk in moving history
Save your judgment of the first Indian that will ask you for change for the white hippie pedaling a guitar
Save your mace intended for the cholo walking behind you for the new wave of imported locals
Who might one day ask you ‘What is it with this place?’
And you, drunk off of fumes from the barrio and Pueblo feasts can turn to them and say
It’s Burque
And you will have absolutely no idea what that means
Go run into the day, proud that you’re a survivor of anti-colonialism
You’re lucky you’re in disguise – these parts are rough
And be careful
This place is old and full of tricks and trap doors
And if you’re not cautious you might fall into a pit of understanding
Or trip over something that causes you to bite your tongue
Buenos Dias el Nuevo Conquistador
Y ten cuidado