Read an Excerpt
Curator of Ephemera at the New Museum for Archaic Media
By Heid E. Erdrich Michigan State University Press
Copyright © 2017 Heid E. Erdrich
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62895-298-8
CHAPTER 1
Curatorial Statement for Wiindigo Eye
Viewing this work through the lens of Fresnel, an oblique critical angle might be arrived at, and we may appreciate the layers of flat and curved surface, the distinct cultural experience refracted in black and white. Each section of the whole builds imaging and non-imaging so that areas of text, "there's a picture opposite me / of my primitive ancestry / that stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free," might act as non-image. Convexly, the artist's DNA — left as she crimped the paper, sucked the brush to a fine tip, hiccupped, tore a nail — creates an image of the indigenous corpus. That this image arises entirely from non-visible elements, and yet we see figures we relate to our engagement, surely shows the work itself commands us to interact with it. That the type of interaction is not specified means less than that we viewers scrape the underside of well-muscled 100 pound paper, send the sample, and await results. Or as critic Jessica Kolopenuk asserts: ... they can learn their "true ancestry" — they can now feast on the genetic contents of their own flesh. They have themselves become host to the wiindigo.
The Honey Suckers
We drank the nectar left there for you
We grew drunk on doom
There was never enough
Down by the river of our youth
we pulled love with our tongues
We took something from you
Green-groping in reeds and stink
river slow in its drive-by saw us
said nothing rWe could say
we were young — young was once true
We took all that was sweet and all that would be
We left no excuse
We ignored the body-made call the sweet text
its subtle, alien speech
We beseeched! We beseeched!
Did you not get our message?
It tasted of many grasses drunk
clover bud, sepal, petals —
then panic, then wrath, then the end
All that we read
we misread
Come hither, help us! Come-come!
Did you not get enough?
Taste in the grass, be drunk —
Taste many times over taste more
taste in hurry in passion
taste to the end of all tongues and be done
Autobiography as Gesture
All that I meant All my intent What I had to say
carpal tunnel pulses a flow of sparks so I print with light on light indelible
information encodes then deletes still the paths in my hands
faint remains no not as if sparks in the dark liquid of mind could
express impress this last medium —
delete to the bone bone's deep chambers down to what's left what's been left
our bodies nothing less
our hands the thumb beloved gesture trace — other's touch destroying breath
fluted traces in ancestral caves women and children on rainy days finger waves
in clay a mania of hands akimbo askance verbal as dance
they touched and touched and touched
do not touch
What I had to say I intend not portend
in sign and shrug implied vibe eye-stray key cached digital capture
smoke and signal blown through hand-formed bone hoop
bite and bark birch cutouts of my dream-song template for black bear
humpback and hunch of wolverine —
My head tilts my eye bats my breath lets frets across millennia delicate
antiquities try not to breathe future fragility not to touch
All that I meant All my intent What I had to say I
stroked instead.
Wireless Handshake
Drums talking they say or smoke signals we used long ago
like Pope Smoke dark or white
or the prairies fired to say we've entered near we are here we are here we are here
Whale Smoke when we needed crowds to take the meat before the tide
or the Noon Gun signaling military time
ancestor of the factory whistle school bell
What we wanted to know I asked
Now give me your reply pick your mode sync syn
Photophone Radiophone Videophone Satellite stuttering high
Shortwave Microwave
Heliograph of sun and mirrors or moon and mirrors
Lighthouse Beacon fire Balefire
a pillar of cloud by day ... a pillar of fire by night
Landing lights Aldis lamp shuttering flashes of code
What we wanted to know I ack I ask I syn ack you know
Now give me your reply pick your mode
Cellular Mobile Device
Or come quite close
stroke my hair aside
buzz the cilia deep in my ear
my neck your Vampire Tap Lightning Thunderbolt
Unless too wired too tied to copper you choose to co-axially
to Cat 5 Your choice
Unshielded Twisted Pair or Shielded Twisted Pair
We be either or both just text me which so we sync
what we wanted to sync
so flood follows serves us for you
not one thing would I deny
Undead Faerie Goes Great with India Pale Ale
Pale and smoky eye
puny bruised bully
thin as a wingvictim
rampant
in a fierce corset
That look, I've never liked
Shards of black lace or
tattered chiffon trailing
over an arm brace
and a crossbow
Lidded glances, that look I know
That look comes around
every decade or so
Panting waxy vampires, sexy undead
Hipster Zombies
Ravishing Aliens
Punk Voodoo Queens
Goth go-eth before
and after
the fall
And we've seen it all before
Only this time the tenor shifts —
What we know: we are already eating each other
We are already part of this
Plaid-skirted co-eds at colleges in the seventies
we ate them
Drunken Midwestern youths by the quarry we devoured
by the score
We are already eating each other
We are already part of this
Mother's veins open, bleed copper and black
leave a sheen on our lips
We lick, then start in again
Machines drink and drink what we think is clean
Already eating each other we are already
part of this
Mouth-feel is all, gorgeous umami,
tender children, veal in a school bus
we are eating you all right now
I myself have eaten you all already
with fries and a beer
You did not satisfy
What I want now is an Undead Faerie —
a palate cleanser
a poof of foam squid ink in whisked cream
pomegranate syrup in salty swirls
that bleed deeply
tasty yes, but an hour later ...
We are already eating each other
We are already a part of this
Red Star
Inside the red star of a cottonwood twig
inside the box of the North Dakota map
that is my country
my country as it was
Two-hundred-year-old towers
trees old as our sorrow
their silver leaves platter
for no one now
Two-hundred-year-old trees
lost their way to breed
their old gray branches
no longer strong enough
to hold our dead
Sweet embrace of eternal sleep
lovers' arms always always always
now no more
No longer strong enough
to hold our ancestors
in their sleep
silver leaves platter for no one now
Inside the red star of a cottonwood heart
inside the box of the North Dakota map —
Sixty years the dams
kept these trees
raining clouds of seed
on barren silt
There will be no more great cottonwoods
There is nowhere left to go to die
but the boxy map of my country
in the red star of my deep inside
Inside cottonwood twigs is the shape of a star. A sign of life and natural harmony for American Indians and others, cottonwood forests along the Missouri River are in decline. — Brian Gehring, Bismarck Tribune, October 13, 2013
The Gig of Light
Let us now speak of The Gig of Light
Let us speak as the buzz of bulbs brilliantly or
vividly intoned as old-timers' concert flashbacks
Let our memoir-a-thon glitter and flit
Firefly-in-the-face vs. flash-in-the-pan
Let us speak long of The Gig of Light
How we held the retina in a dazzle —
how we zapped the sun up for a second
how we shocked with watts
and perfect resolution
Oh, The Gig of Light! The Gig of Light!
How we shimmered
aurora-like and arousing
how we glowed
green-blue and crisp
how we flickered
meaningfully or with menace —
How we streaked across the screen
and were seen no more
Boom
Pale wool blue horizon design an itchy landscape
We all wore the same bargain sweater
in an airplane in a dream Boom A fight erupts
Take your seats please, and can we have peace?
No more argument from you Mister
Mr. Not-Our-Same-Sweater-Wearer
The radio wakes me with its cultured accent
"The Labor Department today said ..."
Push Push Push my beloved urges
as he snaps it to snooze
Snow and silence fill things
with nothing
Still, stillness is something
Swirls of subconscious speak still
so early my yearning bares itself
prairie butte air so huge you gulp
you might go down drown from so much sky
Such perfect absence There's nothing there but
birds whirling snow geese as far as the eye sees
North Dakota winds in grassland
now that's constancy Buffalo grass glows
frosted flowing speaking low secretive
Used to be there was nothing there
Close it up they used to say
Return it to the Buffalo Forget Indians
Wind churns a million watts
Gas burns ancient marshes off
Coal pits deep and busy like messy little cities
Tell you what, drive out at night
This is what an engineer in Fargo urges
Flares for miles he promises as far as the eye ...
Boom
The Dark Sky Reserve
Say what you will silent lake
wimpy shimmer of clouds
shrugging a blueness a blank slate
non-verbal pre-verbal verb-less breathless expectation
Jet trails uncross the air
so sky no more hatches
plans to own itself
it owns itself
reservation by mistake
reserved for our escape
because it is sky because it is space
Hang Fire
Depth of dark air between us
we sense all things suspended
How tenderly we glance at Earth in her black velvet
Little strings of farmyard lights outside tiny prairie towns
— glitter of lit roads appear to adorn her
How tender our sentiment at cruising altitude —
as soon as we've taken off, we want her back
Depth of heaven beneath us
we sense nothing and all between
We wonder what's out there —
Then intercede the flares
a hundred miles of red eyes
a forever of red lights that thin but do not end
where once the darkest dark dropped through to still more dark
where even a new moon could reflect in our eyes
where that gleam alone could be our guide
out of sage scent and tumbled canyon out of a constant quiet
Out of that profound suspension
relieved of all things human
reason became quickening became our fire
Our own fire
— lit in a pact we made with the sky
Soon our gaze strayed from the sky to flickers of ideas sparks of stories
embers of memory we banked to make a future to fashion foolish notions
How quickly we returned to gazing as if above it
turned all to sentiment all suspended
Once we own it
we cannot un-own our fire
Once we suspended fire in the night sky
we could no longer see in the dark and darkness deserted us
we knew then the infinity of our fire and how our fire hangs
on us
How we must hang with fire
Our burning night sky shames us to the world. It is prairie skies that define a prairie landscape, as well as a prairie inhabitant. Desecration of those skies runs contrary to our conservative character and native quickening.
— Jan Swenson, Badlands Conservation Alliance, quoted in Native Sun News, February 2015
These Are My Pearls, This Is My Swine
Pale soap bubble accreted around grit
Irritation gone iridescent gone global
These are my pearls this is my swine
Unleash the tuxedo pigs attired so fine
Let boars fork these pearls like truffles
tusked from prairie sand
These are my pearls this is my swine
These my words my copper mine
Like the base who threw away
the worth of all his tribe
wealth we sign away line by line
These are my pearls this is my swine
Dress me in the blood shawl drape the shells
in a graduated rope around my neck
Tell them it is time Open the door
invite the oil-rich and velvet-dressed swine
These are my pearls I have made them mine
Pre-Occupied
River river river
I never never never
etched your spiral icon in limestone
or for that matter pitched a tent on cement
near your banks
Banks of marble stock still all movement in the plaza
river walking its message on an avenue
rallied in bitter wind
Excuse my digression my mind tends ...
In reality my screen is lit with invitations
bake a casserole — send pizza — make soup for the 99%
Sorry somehow I haven't time
Flow flow flow both ways in time
There's a river to consider after all
No time no hours no decades no millennia.
No I cannot dump cans of creamed corn
and turkey on noodles and offer forth
sustenance again
A bit pre-occupied, we original 100%
who are also 1%, more or less
Simply distracted by sulfide emissions tar sands pipelines foster
care polar bears hydro-fracking and the playlist deeply intoning
Superman never made any money ...
River river river Our river
Map of the Milky Way
reflection of stars
whence all life commenced
100% of all life on our planet
River in the middle Mississippi
not the East Coast Hudson where this all started
waterway Max Fleischer's team lushly rendered
via the wonder of Technicolor
Emerging from an underwater lair
a Mad Scientist we comprehend as indigenous
has lost his signifiers (no braids, no blanket)
but we recognize him
A snappy dresser who flashes a maniac grin
he is not not your TV Indian
Ignoble Savage "... and I still say Manhattan
rightfully belongs to my people"
Superman "Possibly but just what
do you expect us to do about it?"
Occupy Occupy Worked for the 99
Occupy Re-occupy Alcatraz and Wounded Knee
Sorry somehow now I've too much time
Flow flow flow both ways story-history-story
There's a river that considers us after all
All time all hours all decades all millennia
River river river
I never never never — but that is not to say that I won't ever
Curatorial Statement for Apocalyptic Poetics
You describe just what you fear. You imagine 99% of the human population just drops dead. You imagine they curl and rot where they drop. Plants die, strange plants spring up, new animals appear, old animals disappear. You imagine this in some future. You imagine a now. You can yet vibrate the hive, cough up rafts of plastic, find time for reprieve, cry out for justice, own the apocalypse before it owns you. You imagine a past. A past as a virgin land, rich loam, bottomland — it was all just waiting there, going to waste, before. Before was just after — after 99% of the living dropped dead, unwept, went back to the earth where they lay. Strange plants sprang up, new animals appeared, old animals disappeared. We walk on the bridge of bones our ancestors left, their bodies fed the great over-bloom of America where we are 1% of the 5% who eat nearly everything. All just as you fear. Yet we are still here.
At the Anachronism Fair
Wonder of a man
balances on his bald head
ice in massive aquamarine blocks yes
but wisp-thin sculpted figures too
You, my children, hear droplets
smell what straw dust crowds
sweat and water mixed
make of a hot country day
before you throw your lives
into light boxes
sensory deprivation tanks
for the masses
(me too) who
float here
all eyes and ears
all nostril flare shut off
no huff no whiff
in the great round now
where our senses grow obsolete
anachronistic curiosities for other futures
Wonder of it all child will be how
you'll know your need-to-breathe
(when at last you two meet)
the one you'll pull like breath
your lung-gasping stuff
your not-enough your not-enough
CHAPTER 2
Indigenous Elvis Works the Medicine Line
Indigenous Elvis toes an invisible boundary
signed into being, there but not there
Indigenous Elvis works the border crossing
laser scan checks your tribal ID
lifts your hatch and checks your stash
of saskatoons and Hutterite rugs
gently crooning
Wayah hay ya together ...
can't go on together hay yah
suspicious minds ... Wayah hay ya together ...
stuck as a needle, skipped as a disk.
Wayah hay ya together ...
Caught in a trap ... together
Indigenous Elvis works the border crossing
leans deeply into the window
wafts his manly scent a moment
before he asks
This your car?
Where you from?
Indigenous Elvis unhitches your
inhibitions so you giggle
I'm from Minnesota,
it's my husband's car,
I — I'm married.
Indigenous Elvis breathes deeply
through one nostril
squints away waves okay
while you struggle with the gears
his voice rich in your ears
Wayah hay ya together ...
Doncha, hay ya, doncha ...
do anything but ...
Wayah hay yah together ...
Indigenous Elvis works the border crossing
toes the invisible boundary signed into being
birthed by a signature
there but not there
Big Medicine
Doncha, hay ya, doncha ...
do anything but ... go on together
wayah hay yah ... with suspicious minds ...
He dances to a flash
to an indigo tune
to blue suede blues —
Wayah hay ya together ...
dances to a dot you can't help but watch
dwindles to a shimmy
in your rearview mirror
wayah hay yah hay ...
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Curator of Ephemera at the New Museum for Archaic Media by Heid E. Erdrich. Copyright © 2017 Heid E. Erdrich. Excerpted by permission of Michigan State University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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