The Survivor

By Red Ghetto Rebel

June 13, 2016

Lower Brule, S.D.

 

The soul is the essence of a human being. It is the blank canvas to which color is painted on by the hand of fate. This fate is the world in which the soul is born into.
Within this world we all carry the colors that paint the landscape of our souls. We were once blank canvases ourselves, painted by the hands of family, community and environment.

Parents become the medium that dominates the painting, if they are dark their painting is dark, if they have color their painting has color, if they are grey their painting is grey.

We all interpret a piece of art differently because we all have variations of color within ourselves that, in some way, can relate to the message that the artist is speaking to. Where there is color we find interest and where there is darkness we find concern. In either case we become the judge and the critic or the lover of art.

This is just human nature.

A newborn is the canvas embracing light for the first time, embracing the colors that they see through the windows to their soul. They are strangers to this world, they are strangers to life. Born without color or shade they are as innocent as the fibers that are woven into their human embodiment.

If it takes a community to raise a child, it takes a family to paint their soul.

When an infant is neglected or born of abuse the first dark colors begin to take hold of the landscape and the personality of their picture. If the medium is violence the landscape and the subject is violence.

Love is the only color that covers violence. But only by the hand of empathy can love change the meaning of a darkened sea or a stormy day.

With this being said…what would the reservation landscape look like to a child? How would the colors of abuse and neglect look on the smile of a child born into the darkened wasteland of oppression?

These children weep through violence, cry through the night. Often broken by the blurred shame and the muffled vulgarity of the alcoholics and the drug addicts who worship poverty in the next room.

They are painted in this dysfunctional emersion medium of abuse. Beer cans and needles are the sacred objects kept in their homes. The kitchen table is where the seventh generation performs their immoral communion. Tomorrow night will be a repainted version of the night before. The colors remain the same.

As the moon slips past in the unforgiving night, the fire of reservation rages within the cluster lodges of violence. They cover their ears when the fights begin. They hide their eyes when their arguing vomits onto them the shades of black and blue of reservation normalcy.

Separated by paper-thin laws and moldy sovereignty, these survivors are traumatized every day and every night by the madness of the insane artists.

What crawls out from their darkened corners isn’t a monster but an evil selfish imp who drags their innocent souls behind them into their colorless misery.

Survivors are those who are scarred by this reservation cesarean, their canvas is cut and burned by the knife of drugs and the raging fire of alcohol. They often dream of silence, they wish for the light of family to give substance to their existence but only receive black oily depression dripping upon their landscape from the eyes of their mothers and from the insanity in the hearts of their many fathers.

They are drug from one mattress on the floor to the next. Staggering through the minefields of grey welfare as they follow their mothers to her next one-night stand, because if she stands for nothing she weeps for anything.

Like a pet they are painted with the brush of mediocrity, a figment of the imagination.

Their inanimate and colorless existence was painted on this great reservation mural by the hands of the immature children who birthed them.

There is no love and there is no future in this cesspool of oppression. They are living pieces of art whose value is measured in government assistance. Their worth is defined at the end of every month.

The little survivors only learn of this horrible truth when they see their own image through the blinding reflection of culture.

LONG LIVE THE FIGHTERS 

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The Villain

By Red Ghetto Rebel

June 12, 2016

Lower Brule, S.D.


Reality is only as real as you are able to accept it. Truth is only as powerful as you are able to believe it. You are only as free as the weakness in your knees, once you fall to them for a sham or a lie you become nothing more than a burnt offering.
 
Pain like deformity is hereditary.
 
What does it take to see again in the darkened abyss of misery? Well… it isn’t laziness or sloth. It isn’t hate or violence or ravenous megalomania. The only “light” that can find you is your own hope not your illusion of hope.
 
When a person who wishes to sit at the throne of disparity makes you a promise don’t believe it. If that person cries the tears of lies don’t wipe them. If this person laughs at your pain don’t laugh with them. They feed your insecurity with poisoned security flicking their tongue upon your face in the insatiable hope that you will believe their lie.
 
Elected councils are like this and you know this, they are nothing more than a hopeless group of scandalous collaborators bereft of merit who hide their faces behind their colorless play doe masks of inequity and stupidity, constantly reforming this expressionless deformity to keep it from dripping off their faces under the burning sunlight of sovereignty. By any means necessary their truth cannot be exposed.
 
They had their soapbox handed to them by the drugged and drunken addicts that slither through the cracks of the community. These discombobulated representatives represent all that is wrong with any corrupted society, a microcosm of a greater worldly verity.
 
Their campaigns consist of offerings of alcohol and drugs that they leave on this alter of subjection. Feeding political obesity with the soup of purgatory while pleading for admonishment from the ravenous addicts who gorge themselves at this alter on the ashy remains of a heritage and history long lost on pews of the unholy assimilator.
 
With their pointed beaks they scratch their votes into the cracked soiled oppression of reservation dementia.
 
But isn’t this the true campaign of poverty? Isn’t this the herald of depression? When born on the ship of subjugation isn’t the ocean of freedom the enemy? Isn’t the culture of violence the creation of the immaculate deception? When the master of deceit tells you that underneath the calm waters there live creatures ready to devour your liberty, do you abandon hope for conformity? What is a reservation if it isn’t a hopeless cult?
 
There are those who crave attention, media whores who prostitute culture for self-worship. They only exist to rub themselves down with the soot of lies and denial. They protest mediocrity to hide their unholy truth. Who is the true snake if it is not the liar who licks the venom from their teeth after they spit their inferiority upon your brow to blind you from truth? We see them trying to shove their villainous rendered fat down the throats of others. Choking out their opinion and their faith.
 
Obscurity is a form of pain and in this opaque actuality the terminally tormented use violence to rip at the womb of insecurity at the expense of others. They create a cause to revolt against when in fact, through their own hidden secrets, they commit their own infanticide.
 
It is easy to blame those in front of you when your own cruelty stands behind you. Of all inhumanity the contemptible hand of the protester is the filthiest when it is anointed by the wretched hypocrisy of the irresponsible. Thou doth protest too much.
 
You can see the true villains by their gluttonous temperament. Feeding off the oil and the deep fried fanaticism of denial and lies. Criminally insane, they stir the pot of gossip and hatred for the feed.
 
It is said that the truth will set you free, I believe this wholeheartedly but under today’s circumstances, truth can only be painted with the brush of brutal honesty.
 
Even now your own canvas absorbs this color and embraces it uncontrollably in the way a snake searches for the warmth of sunlight, even now you can see these images haunting your blocked memories and forgotten post traumatic reservation nightmares. The characters already exist in your mind. You just needed the storyline.
 
Sitting there with that same old exclamation mark floating above your head won’t resolve the truth within you and denial of it is just adding another nail into the flesh of your god’s son.
 
The villain is the insanity of all. The denial of truth is its comfort. Its residue infects the air you breathe. When you open your mouth this denial rolls down your chin, though you wipe it a thousand times its acid scared your face. Now you know why the mask of deceit exists.
 
Corruption doesn’t have a beginning it recycles. It starts with lust and ends with lust. Immersed in the teachings of abuse, raised on the bread of neglect. Inevitably you gave birth to it and truth be told you raised this corruption by the strap and backhand of neglect.
 
Little did you know the villain was you all along.

The Mirror

By Red Ghetto Rebel

June 10, 2016

Lower Brule, S.D.

The impact of addiction is greater if it flourishes in an impoverished family. But the truth is obvious, the only abuser and molester of a people are the people themselves.
No “conspiracy” exists that is powerful enough to make a human being make sick and oppressive choices. No government can guide the hand of the sadist. In these darkened corners of reservation clusters the lamentations can be heard in the pain of the abused children.

Those who sit silently with the needle of poverty stung into their flesh do this for their own inglorious gratification. They accepted selfishness and embraced perverted absolutism. By THINE own hands they cover the mouths of their victimized children to ensure their silence.

Who raised these tormentors and wrist cutters? Who brought these dogs to piss on the tree of life? It wasn’t always this way, they were innocent once at birth, but only once. These depressors were born under the threshold of welfare.

They were born into their daily routine of subjugation caused by their own family judgment. Their expressionless stigma of blood quantum inequity is the perfect excuse to self mutilate.

Their elders sold their souls for self-segregation. They spit out their venomous blood degree bigotry on their own grandchildren and call it leadership. While the Midlife tyrants playing house with sovereignty and money are too socially inept to see the truth and the reality as they pass resolutions to produce their own filthy slimy oppression.

The reservation hate is as thick as dirt and blows the dust into the eyes of the eternal wanderers who search the tainted walkways for a mental escape. They search for the chemicals that can relieve them of their pain and their normalized crimes. Their drug is poverty and their high is violence.

While subhuman intellects are scrapping off the bottom pit and frantically feeding off the waste and despair of others and call it “promise”.

The drug needle is their lord and the meth madness their pulpit. They preach a form of pride that is derived from the milk of assimilation. Dried and curdled on the lips of the next generation.

They consummate their living treachery by impregnating the womb of oppression with addiction. A new life to sacrifice to the god of welfare so that they can ride their monthly check to the bottomless pit of reservation oppression. Feeding their brood with the pink pork slime and white bread of abuse and neglect.

No more born out of love, they are born out of perversion with a predatory intent. These damned souls are the cookie cutter copies of their own parent’s reservation image, raised by the whip of addiction and affliction.

The language cant save them, nor can truth, they are lost and voiceless playing the role of their parents before them. They become mothers and fathers before they are adults, raising their children like pets or toys because this is their only example of dysfunctional love.

Even now this mirror finds you stirring uncontrollably in your shadow. Even now the lament begins to whisper from the souls of your children.

With no guilt… you inhale, with no love… you drink, with no self respect… you kiss the needle. So warped are your excuses that reality is a blood stain of your former self. Your teeth expose your fate, why smile for hope when you can laugh with insanity. You made your future a moment, not a lifetime.

There is no evil spirit that kills your children. You killed them when you abused them, when you molested them, when you neglected them. Lying about it won’t redeem your act. The only “Tall Man” in the nightmares of your children are their subconscious images of you. Blaming the dragon wont hide the burned flesh of your children.

Their fate was sealed when you signed your name in the book of codependency. Their future was damned when you cashed that check for drugs.

That day when you fell to your knees for your addiction, you killed your child. Their rope was woven by your treacherous hands. Their noose was fastened by your perverted tongue.

Poverty is as much a culture as it is violence, it is a way of life. When this violence strips the human of their identity it can rape the soul at will. Young men and young women pass this sexually transmitted violence into the genetic fabric of their unborn.

The young men lose their identity and become the prisoner of their own obscurity insecurity. Like a virus they terminally infect one destiny to the next making life a disease that cycles in a new generation of addicted souls to burn the way to reservation poverty, while the women murder their own children with the umbilical rope of fate.

Only a sadist will intentionally deform a fetus with incest or meth. Only a reaper will sow the wheat at harvest time, for isn’t the wheat destined to die? Doesn’t the act of hate come from self-hate?

Denial of the truth is the real addiction. Making excuses to justify the true self-imposed reservation brutality will only lead to obesity. The mark of evil is the fat that drips from your meth spoon. The heart attack you feel is the truth, eventually the sickle finds its mark.
LONG LIVE THE FIGHTERS