Poet
Luke Warm Water
Poet
Oglala
poet Luke Warm Water shared some of his thoughts with peace caravan during stop
in Lummi Nation.
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What’s in the mirror
Say what. What’s in the mirror. Can I make it any clearer. The way it feels. What used to be. Keeping it real . And what’s not me. These dreams and
fears. My
inspiration. Books on the shelf. Revelations. Interpretations.
How I lose myself in the literary sensations. How long I been ‘round.
What makes the words flow. Can you catch my sounds. Say what. What’s in the mirror.
"Poetry
is when you can't afford the "v" in poverty"
- Doug Haning, Portland Jazz Musician
ARTICLE:
October 17, 2001 interview with Luke Warm Water in Indian Country Today
Newspaper.
http://www.indiancountry.com/?article=2671&style=printable
BIO:
Born
and raised in Rapid City, South Dakota, KURT SCHWEIGMAN a/k/a LUKE WARM
WATER is an enrolled member of the Oglala Lakota Tribe.
Luke has been a featured poet and participated in Poetry Slam venues across
the United States, England and Germany and was a member of the 2000 Tulsa
Slam team.
He has conducted workshops for High Schools in; Portland OR, Austin TX, Long
Beach CA and Tubingen, Germany. He has also hosted a variety of poetry
reading events in Portland OR. LUKE has read his poetry on BBC radio in
England and radio/cable access in Portland OR. He also is an activist in the
efforts of American Indian political prisoner Leonard Peltier, where he
organizes benefits and letter writing campaigns on his behalf.
LUKE has published 2 books ("Commods" and "John Wayne Shot
Me") and a CD. He
currently resides in his hometown in Rapid City, SD.
ENDORSEMENTS:
"Luke Warm Water flows into cold landscapes . an entertaining and
insightful
read."
-- Chris Eyre,
movie director of 'Smoke Signals' and 'Skins'
"Luke Warm Water writes poems for the disenfranchised, those who don't have
a voice. These poems are strong and true; they'll make you laugh and they'll
make you cry. More importantly, they'll make you think."
-- Adrian C. Louis,
author of the novel "Skins" which was made into
a movie (with the same name) directed by Chris Eyre
"Luke's writing and speaking ability are impressive. His talent to
force us
to smile inward and laugh out loud at our dark side is almost therapeutic.
Read and Weep through the pain and pleasure of his expressions."
-- Geraldine Goes-In-Center,
author of "Jokes Heard Around The Rez"
"At his best, Luke has a unique poetic voice, as if the Indian who had been
sitting silent for so long in a dark corner of the American conscience
suddenly stood up and began to speak words that were unflinchingly honest,
surprising, and hopeful, in a voice issuing from the place where humor and
humility
meet."
-- Jack McCarthy,
Boston's "Best Standup Poet"
and author of "Grace Notes"
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Warm Water
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What’s the word
ARE YOU
HUNGRY FOR PIZZA?
My Uncle
Verlin was 40 years my senior
When questioned about his ethnicity he would respond
"Mostly Sioux Indin', part German,
and when it comes to the drink,
full-blooded Irishmn"
Uncle Verlin lived to be an old man
Raised on a ranch,
on a South Dakota Reservation by my grandparents
Uncle Verlin was a true cowboy Indian
Living out his life like the songs Hank Williams Sr.
and Woody Guthrie lamented about
Drifting
Drinking
Leaving a trail of about a 1/2 dozen pissed off ex-wives
And children, claimed and unclaimed
Along the path of his life
One night Uncle Verlin and I polished off a fifth of whiskey
Hungry we decided on pizza
He had seen the TV commercials of Pizza Hut
and wanted to eat at one for the first time
Upon our arrival
Teenage white kids were working
A white boy asked us from behind the counter
what we wanted to order
The biggest pizza you have with alot of extra cheese,
Uncle Verlin said
The white kid asked what he wanted for toppings
Uncle Verlin responded
Tiny little white men
The kid behind the counter looked bewildered asking 'what?'
Tiny tiny little white men on my pizza
'Uh sir we don't have that topping do you want a different topping?'
NO! I want only tiny tiny little white men on my pizza
The white boy behind the counter now looked shit scared
After that Uncle Verlin and I lost it
We laughed and laughed all the way home carrying our pizza
with Italian sausage topping
After all
Columbus was Italian
We thought it the next best choice for a pizza topping
Poems by
Kurt Schweigman a.k.a. Luke Warm Water
copyright 2003
JOHN
WAYNE’S BULLET
Takansila
(Grandfather)
John Wayne and his like
Shot us
Wounded we are recovering
Removing the bullets:
racism, genocide
booze, heroin
Big Macs, cable television
and so on
Nursing our torn flesh
Filling the holes with good medicine,
the circle of life
and the 7 sacred rights
Gun powder to cauterize our wounds
Building common sense
out of the spent metal casings
Keeping the extracted iron bullets
To construct an impervious tipi (lodge)
around our culture
Grandfather
John Wayne shot us
His followers are still shooting
With their hammer of greed cocked ready
With their chamber of oppression filled full
With their itchy ignorance finger on the trigger
With their barrel of assimilation aiming down on us
Grandfather
We won't steal John Wayne's gun away
That would make us just like him
So we are saving gun powder from their dud
cartridges to cauterize our wounds
Searching for their spent casings from the urban city
back alleys to the Reservation prairies
Keeping their extracted iron bullets from our wounds
to build the new sacred lodge
Grandfather (Takansila)
We will soon have saved enough
from American society's nothing
To finally protect our grandchildren
from John Wayne's bullet
Poems by
Kurt Schweigman a.k.a. Luke Warm Water
copyright 2003
The Jesus of
Pine Ridge
The Jesus of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
in South Dakota
was raised speaking Lakota until he was 5 years old
until he was sent to the Catholic boarding school
on the Rez where the Nun's washed
his native language out of him
everytime he was caught speaking Lakota
and they washed in English with white bar soap
When he was a young teenager he had the same recurring dream
of Nun's crucifying him
atop an old wooden telephone pole
with No.2 lead pencils
driven through his palms and feet
wire notebook binder stretched and wrapped
around his head like a crown of thorns
pages of Big Chief notepad paper fastened
around his groin area like a loin cloth
After he ran away from boarding school at age 15
he never again had that dream
in that ending of his prophecy vision
he knew he was the Jesus of Pine Ridge
destine to deliver the full-bloods and half-breeds
away from the have-to-bees, wannabees
and pale skinned devils
Deliver them to a promised land
in the sacred Black Hills of South Dakota
or at least to the fertile prairie
just south of the state line into Nebraska
or at the very least
somewhere just north of Interstate 90
The Jesus of Pine Ridge contemplated
this deliverance into his mid-20's
with a 1,000 communions of frybread
and Gibson White Port wine
he figured he needed a sturdy chariot
to lead his people into the promised land
so he bought a car at the reservation border town
of Gordon, Nebraska
and traded for a mighty steed
of faded yellow and rust
a 1964 Chrysler Newport
for 260 bucks and 100 dollars in food stamps
The white guy that sold it to him
was some kind of pastor nut
when the deal was done
the white guy laid his hands on the front hood
and preached
"By the power invested in me in the name of Jesus Christ I cast the demons
and Lucifer out and
away from this vehicle, why just the other day I laid my hands on a road
kill dog
and brought it back to life"
The Jesus of Pine Ridge knew he was a false God full of shit
and tore out of his parking lot
gravel flying like angels in a holy cloud of dust
ripping the plastic Jesus off the dash board and throwing in the back seat
laughing and B-lining it to the closest liquor store
every car needs a name
so he called it his
'Jesus Chrysler'
10 years and 10 used cars later
the bloodied fists and face
steady diet of commodity food
empty Budweiser cans and big belly
angry mothers of his various children
were taking its toll on the Jesus of Pine Ridge
Countless crazy dumb luck adventures he survived
like the time
he could fly
yes, the Jesus of Pine Ridge could fly
well,
more like fall
off a 300 ft. cliff
in the Black Hills
a gust of wind and lost footing
found him at the bottom of the canyon
he awoke in a hospital bed
with broken ribs, shattered pelvis and a shattered leg
and of course the various cuts and bruises
So the Jesus of Pine Ridge can never die
the car accidents
the fights
the jail time
the bad booze and drugs
even falling off a 300 foot cliff
could never kill the Jesus of Pine Ridge
Maybe he died along time ago
and this life is his resurrection
the chosen one
to deliver all us full-bloods to half-breeds
into salvation
the Jesus of Pine Ridge
This has been the gospel
according to Luke Warm Water
The Biggest
Indian I Ever Met
"Hey Kola, what tribe are you?"
"Pueblo" he says
We exchange greetings and shots and beers
The only two Indians in the place
that is full of 100 white men, mostly in suits
and 15 strippers that looked eternally 18
No matter where I go on this planet
Drinking Indians come together like long lost brothers
Like crushed recycled cans to a giant magnet,
to be melted and drank out of again
Some unspoken bond that never leaves Indians
It is a humor that only we can understand
Joking and laughter covering past and present reality
The big Indian and I laugh
and war hoop holler through the night
As the drinks feed our smiles, while
the big perky tits and skinny legs
make their way into our drunk dancing eyeballs
I finally had to ask the Biggest Indian I ever met
what his stats are
He said,
"I'm 6'4 and 450 pounds"
No shit
He looked like Jabba the Indian
He told me that he was big all his life,
ever since he could remember
I asked if he ever played football
He told me he never sold his soul to a white mans sport
As we gave away our countless one dollar bills
to the lace
and bought each other more drinks
He tells me how much he respects my tribe
for what they did to Custer and his men
at Little Big Horn
He once drove to all night from Albuquerque
to visit
Some Northern Cheyenne Indian friends
in Montana
First and only time to Montana
He always wanted to visit
Little Big Horn Battlefield there
And piss on Custer's grave
So as he arrived at the Battlefield just before sunrise
He climbed the chain link fence surrounding Custer's grave
And pissed on it
I asked him if he was drunk at that time
He said he wasn't
and in fact
in that experience
to this day
He had never felt more sober in his life
Later that morning he arrived
at his Northern Cheyenne friends
He told them what he did
They thought he was crazy and funny
saying,
"Geez, we live here and don't even know anyone
that would even do that!"
I thought that was pretty funny too
But for me it was funnier picturing
A 6'4, 450 pound Pueblo Indian
climbing a chain link fence
Back
to the beginning of the poems
End
of Poems
There is no where but up from here.