By Red Ghetto Rebel

January 22, 2017
Lower Brule, S.D.

 
“Friends, friends,
I have fought the sun.
He tried to burn me up,
But he could not do it.
Even battling the sun,
I held my own. – Rabbit Boy”
 
Recently a relative killed herself. The word was that she overdosed.
 
I imagined that she sat and watched the sun fly by. She slept and dreamt the shadows away waiting for a tomorrow that never came.
 
When she was born into the sadist temple her sacrifice began. In through the maimed and beaten spirit world of the cluster housing, entering the threshold of life and didn’t return from the doorway of her death. 

Her flesh remained behind as offerings for her dysfunctional family to fight over, ripping whatever materialism and violence they could from her remnants.
 
Vultures picking at her corpse and at the flesh of her dead and depraved youth that bleed suicide onto mother earth, while her lunatic parents vomit laughter into their snot rags as they molest their brood in the name of sovereignty.
 
Everyday is another slippage into the level beneath that which is above the horizon of human decency. Lowered into this pit by the hand that birthed her.
 
The walls of her decrepit house echo with depression and despair as another day and night are woven in to fabric of monotony. 

Was her purpose in vain? 

Her heart lays on the ground soiled with soot of discontent as the demons scratch at her door.
 
Suicide carries such a message. But it also carries secrets that were never overcome by the victim.
 
It is always unfortunate when we lose a young life, a young spirit. In the momentum of everyday a soul can sometimes become lost or we lose track of them. Some simply don’t want to be found.
 
I think back on what she meant to us all, to me and to those who cared. I think of the trail she walked. Looking back to her birth and the steps she took up to her death. I remember how unfortunate it was to be born into her mother’s sadistic world. Like watching an accident from a distance. You can only pray for survival.
 
I remember the candle of her life and when it was lit when she awoke to this world.
She wasn’t born into happiness. She wasn’t born into stability. He mother carried demons and demonized others with her pain. Sometimes there are far worse realities than a damn silver spoon.
 
Packed into the reservation cubical lighting her uneasy wick of anxiety as her candle of post-traumatic stress tried to shed its meager light upon the shadows of her insanity, while the molester lurks behind the darkened intent of their stench.
 
She tried to find the light of day in the lifeless eyes of her mother. In some manner and in some way the macabre illusions of the tomorrows haunted her, infected her. How would she know what form of violence will creep into her living nightmare?
 
The reservation is a harsh place for a young woman. Perversion festers behind closed doors. Pedophiles lurk in the obvious places. Perverts are great actors they play their rolls well. So when a soul enters this world they’re soon consumed with pain. Body burned by the hands of abuse. Shades of despair move behind the eyes of their innocence.
 
She had her secrets, as we all do but hers were horrible enough to want to die rather than confront them. The memories she hid ripped her soul apart to a point where life wasn’t medicinal enough to cure.
 
She existed in that cycle of aimless lucidity, waiting for the tick tock of humanity to end. She wasn’t free and she wasn’t chained… if anything she is oppressed.
 
The act of this assault comes from the violence around her in her everlasting burden of survivability.
 
Slowly her shadow of death crept up. Slowly she reached for the needle. She thought about suicide but wouldn’t seek help. If she exposed the secrets of her family and her mother she would surely be alone. Her own demons were whispering to her. When her mother gave her life she also took her innocence. She killed her child before she had a chance to live.
 
She was a pessimist and an anarchist because she had no choice. She was defeated long ago by the drugs and alcohol consumed by her mother and the welfare wellspring from which she flows.
 
No searchlight guides her in this stormy prairie sea and not one helpless hand reaches out to pull her out of her reservation uncertainty. If there could be any word to define the child plight in this depravity it would be insanity.
 
Children born of many fathers each connected to the umbilical cord of demoralized human-hood. The mother and the father no longer have the bond of love, they have the emotional scars of lust and addiction. They breed their own afflictions.
 
Some people in essence are born to hate. They hate themselves and hate their image. They become sadists, enjoying the pain that others endure. They will inflict pain just to watch the suffering of others or their own children. They will violate and abuse them and call it love. Any person who hates themself has a morbid and perverted interpretation of love. In their truth it isn’t really love at all but perversion and self-aggrandizement.
 
The mothers and fathers are children themselves. Never growing up, stuck in adolescence playing parent for the monthly bloody moon time of welfare. This paycheck is the poison that is killing the base soul of our native children.
 
Our relative who killed herself did so because of the pain inflicted by her family. It was by their hands that she gave up. Today, after the fact, they act out the emotion of love, mimicking the despair of loss because she died but in truth they only used, emotionally, sexually and physically abused her in life. They weep crocodile tears to the tribe to get that burial assistance money to buy more meth.
 
Even in death they still rape her.
 
In truth she was victimized and violated by their own mental suffering… burned there by the branding iron of our reservations last generation mother and father. The cycle that never ends… It turns and turns again with every rotation of grandmother earth.
 
If you want to know the real reason why her hanging tree still stands? You need only look at their own selfishness, their lust, and their addictions. There is no “tall dark man” taking the youth, there is no spirit that is to blame for the suicide for any child. This is just an excuse to put blame on a nonexistent cause.

The evil is you sister and your own perverted choices. 

The suicidal children lack hope and love from both their parents, a love that a welfare check or a meth addiction can’t provide.
 
She existed in this dysfunctional motion of violence even as she warmed herself under the sun. Her reservation is an empty soul of a place where children cling to hunger. They don’t remember the last time a worry slipped past them down by the river.
 
She was trapped in the crab bucket on the evening sunset in which she killed herself. Knowing and waiting for the darkness and all the creatures that scurry in its dusk to wake in their nocturnal premeditation.
 
Immoral colors hide the black and white truth of reservation poverty. Drunk off the fermented fruit of lies and greed… druggy leaches suck to their hearts content off the bile of reservation addictions.
 
A young mother with seven fathers can never escape poverty. The womb scarred by the needle of addiction and heart broken by the same.
 
The boys become fathers to many mothers and the girls become the mothers from many fathers. Ultimately and all waiting for the monthly payday promised them by a dysfunctional society.
 
Their eyes are watching you, they watch you wait for the next day and the next night. You may not see it but they are learning this sordid culture of oppression and welfare by your example.
 
There is no self worth in this primordial reservation. The soap shoved down the throats of our ancestors washed out this hope long ago.
 
Little did she know that this existence shivers in the presence of true culture and yet again it shakes in the light of hope. But her mother was a practicing sadist atheist where to pray is heresy
 
The suicidal are the ultimate victims of the “reservation” Indians.
 
In truth only you as a reservation parent can change it and only you can prevent it, if it’s not too late. Put down the meth and the wine bottle, cast out your selfishness and materialism, close your legs and wear a condom, quit molesting your children but for fuck sake do something to save your children.
LONG LIVE THE FIGHTERS