Native American Indian Center of Central Ohio
Sunday, April 30, 2006

Pachtama?waas ahhki Anishinabeok.

In the tongue of my Grandma's people, Mohican: "The Great Spirit blesses the land where we, the people, live."

God bless America!

Pachtama'waas ahhki Anishinabeok.

This is Goats in Prison, Volume 1 of the Free Press archives project.

I?m dedicating this never-ending quest to my aunt and uncle Bernice and Arvid Miller from the Mohican Nation Library in Wisconsin. Some of you may remember Arvid from the last page of Custer Died for Your Sins. He helped found the National Congress of American Indians, the United Nations of tribal governments. After he died, their cabin caught fire and all the young people, who never seemed to care much before, formed a bucket brigade and saved their library. Bernice was my Daddy?s childhood friend, and best, along with Bill Coleman, Chief Buffalo from the Aleut Scouts, first American to contact Japanese ground forces. When Aunt Bernice retired the Tribe hired twelve people to do her jobs and now she?s passed leaving over 220 direct Mohican descendents.

And to Berta Lambert who, before he left me near Fernald to go witness nuclear tests, taught me how to hand off a project.

When we control our communities, our histories, our records and libraries, our archives and media, when we have our own space, so secure pigs can?t fire-bomb it three times a year; when our sovereign governments run our sovereign land-bases and the occupation government stops stealing our money, and we are free to build our own economies; then we win!

Then we impeach the illegitimate traitors!

And then we begin to see in America some real Deep Throat Justice! Some RICO assets seizures for the oil companies! Zapatistas venceremos! And no nuclear bunker-busting Iran's dirty bomb plants - unless we plan to lose, not just the Tories' oil, but the War on Cancer.

In this life we all get about the same amount of ice, were Bat Masterson's last words. "The rich get it in summer and the poor get it in the winter." We all play many roles. I've been a husband, a father, a hack-writer, and a half-assed activist. And now I'm a cancer survivor. But there's one thing I never thought I'd be. I never thought I'd be a Toon.

By Steve Conliff

It can be usefully distracting
To have a "you" perpetually
Out there wackily attacking
On the scoreboard. Experts see

If you wished to ambush them
You'd have done it easily.
They'd just love to be your friend.
Toons make friends so cheesily.

Baseball players do not chop.
They can't use those tommyhawks.
In the locker-room these guys
Hit each other with cream pies.

So let me just make you an offer.
Then if you'd like to make a deal,
Call up with the proper proffer
To my agent, Dana Beal.

Let the Pieman go.
He just wants to throw.
Let Chief Wahoo be.
Set the poor guy free.

Toons don't have to be so mean.
Sometimes the clown likes to work clean.
Crazy-Turban you erase.
Damn Wahoo's always in our face.

Some times it's tough to be a Toon
But at least you're not some goon.
Your friends may think that you're a loon,
But laughter often is a boon.

For when the porkers start in shooting,
Then the bunnies commence looting.
Old Coyote, he just races.
The Roadrunner paces.

Riots in Toontown,
Toontown tonight,
We?ll riot in Toontown,
Toontown tonight.

Old Wyatt?s in Toontown,
Shooting up bars.
Batgirl is coming
By way of Mars.

Seen Buckethead walking
Old Hero Dog.
And Zorba keeps squawking
'Bout Fightin' Bob's blogs.

Riots in Toontown,
Toontown tonight.
We're running thru Toontown,
Looking to fight.

Tomorrow we'll clean up,
Recycle, remediate.
But just for this evening,
Let's live life immediate.

The porkers are shooting.
The bunnies keep looting.
Old Coyote races;
The Roadrunner paces.

Riots in Toontown,
Toontown tonight.
We'll have fun in Toontown.
Be there tonight.