Todd T. Detschman
Did the texture display it . . .
Or is the abomination of a color created from their fears
Since birth tastes seemed laced with it
Opinions bred into the young by force
And what so called forefathers have claimed to discover
Have claimed as their own . . .
Has always existed . . . Having always owned us
Cultural identities trying to hold onto Dream-time
Mom is baking pie again and apples don't taste so nice
Hot dogs and ball games mirror the stink of having sold out
Mom is baking pie again and Chevrolet is not a way of life
The seeds of white man's labor
Have bore a technological monster that not even they can control
An idea . . . Once ethical
Lost in the transformation from mind to paper
From paper to natural resource consuming mechanics
Devouring the fruit of nature . . .
Not knowing or even caring of the inbred idea that texture displays
Mom is baking pie again and Chevrolet is not a way of life
Tales of flag waving moments told too many times
Frozen . . . And captioned . . . And thrust into books
To condone the tears on others' hands . . . And the blood in our eyes
Without all the truth the truths they teach become lies
Hot dogs and ball games mirror the stink of having sold out
Well-kept lawns and wood cut-outs precariously placed
Identical houses and too many people with the same meaningless name
Mom is baking pie again and apples don't taste so nice . . .
This magazine is produced by the Write Place and is funded through a St. Cloud State University (St. Cloud, Minnesota) Cultural Diversity Committee allocation.
Contributors retain all rights to their work.