Real Indian Junk Jewelry

Real Indian Junk JewelryReal Indian Junk Jewelry

Author: Trevino L. Brings Plenty
Format: Paperback, 126 pages
ISBN: 978-1935218289
Published: March 2012

Buy This Book: Amazon

Critical Response to Real Indian Junk Jewelry

“Trevino, with his raw whiskey-soaked voice, is a barroom bard of great evocation. Unhappily the bar life causes dead Indians. Stay alive, man! I’m hoping in your maturity you’ll become the Crazy Horse poet me and the elders are waiting for. Spirit-filled words is what the planet needs.”
—Walt Curtis

“In these poems the intimacy is spicy, the lyricism adventurous and the spirit a vigorous dancer. Trevino Brings Plenty, robust as a jazz musician improvising around the traditional American melody line, provides beautiful renditions of a personae’s body and soul testifying about some of the other themes of the America we have become. He is a writer to follow as the years go by.”
—Primus St. John

“Trevino Brings Plenty’s tales focus on Native survival in the face of modern American displacement. He is a young Indian Odysseus, head up, going forward strongly, only occasionally getting distracted by urban sirens singing their songs of destruction. A dynamic, new Indian voice.”
—Adrian C. Louis

Poems from Real Indian Junk Jewelry

The VisitFor Jamie “Chappie” C.I sat on a bench below your kitchen window. I measured dry leaves, divided grass blades, rolled dirt between my fingers.I drown in air, in green music, the seeds of clouds, hair strands, words on paper.

My arms flailed mixtures, oceans calmed, crows lined the roof, my eyes burned. I can’t make a fist. Death would be easy now.

There where I sat again wanting to return to fingers that cleaned brown rice, to a kiss that stopped the blue world, to palms that measured salt, to a patched hole in the heart. I wanted to return to the stained touch and the sadness of your hands.

Fear’s Endurance

My mother in one of her blackouts called me a fag and cried about how grandfather had her stand on the kitchen table and dance, grandfather with a bullwhip in hand lashed her with the tears she now cried.

I didn’t want to be born, they had to pull me out of my mother and since then I cursed her for birthing me out of her loneliness.

For the longest time I didn’t like to take showers. I remembered baths only. I never liked what showers hid from loved ones. My mother hid herself in a shower and I still hear her sobbing.

Once I pissed into my grandfather’s wine bottle. I wanted him to stop
drinking. I remembered his smell was cheap wine, beer, Pall Malls.

My grandfather pushed a shopping cart through the streets of San Jose, CA, and with his friends drank and camped off the side of a road, deep in golden brush.

He taught the Lakota language to friends, never to his children or his grandchildren. The times I heard my language spoken was from him with the stink of cheap beer on his breath.

When he wasn’t drunk, he was a burden. He’d sit at the kitchen table and read the newspaper, tear strips from it and eat it. This was after a day of going through withdrawal, with muscles cramping and family rubbing his body.

I write this now, drinking a half-empty bottle, and have been drunk for 6 months straight. I fell off a wagon I never knew I was on.

Here, on this planet I am Indian first, human second, and still an Indian last. I can’t remember pow wow melodies and my grandfather is dead.

I can’t claim a reservation because I matured in a city and if I see on the concrete streets another Indian walking toward me, I make sure not to make eye contact or else walk another direction.

My one fear is when I’m dead would I need to know my language to journey to the spirit world, will the dead forgive my youth, will they not let me down as I had with others.

Death is my one guarantee for the price of life. I figure that each day is close enough for a good day to die.

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