#ryan red corn

[sephirajo]

so help me god Ryan Red Corn is the funniest son of a bitch on earth

[sephirajo]

Have a poem by one of my fav indigenous poets, a man who like me passes, Ryan Red Corn. He is an amazing writer. Watch his stuff.

[lets-talk-story]

[addamatic]

Bad Indians

I was told by those old ones that every song has a special time and a place where its sang this is our song and this our time they used to say the only good indian is a dead indian i must be a no good at being indian cuz I feel alive and kicking we are the bastard reject children of manifest destiny the offspring of fornicating aimsters raised by our grandparents who told us not to confuse being warriors with gangsters the edward curtis groupies get jazzed by anyone fitting the bill and America gets jazzed by every Bury My Heart at Walmart film here i stand before you this crowd of nations this life of sanctions an awkward patience like five hundred BIA buildings vs. a fathers' unfiltered hate right next to the IHS building with a two and a half week wait. a cinderblock battlefield where few are left standing and the people its failing, its' marginalized estate. i am armed to the teeth with words from the ivory tower and those good indians told me its borrowed power if... if i talk loud enough if i talk clear enough that i would be heard that for some talking is singing that for some singing is praying but i guess that depends on who is doing the talking and i guess that depends on who is doing the listening ...so understand me in english, you have been robbed of your tongues the taproot of thought in the middle of resisting the language got caught and she only shows her face during ceremony like she's ashamed of her scars like what she has to say is never really heard. at all. and the violence she knows is enough to never sing again but i killed the cameraman and stripped him of his lense. i photographed the body and asked him to forgive. forgive me as i cut out your tongue forgive me as i put you in this powdered wig forgive me when i put your body in a museum forgive me of all my sins for not being a good indian the balls of your forefathers will be traded for whiskey to fuel the molotov cocktails to be tossed at your cities and the breasts of your mothers severed and bloody will be sold to the freak show for the revelers money your children will witness their whole world collapse as kidnapped siblings must erase names off maps so forgive me of all my sins for not being a good indian i was taught better than that i have more respect than that there is no history book with my story there is no newspaper to give me my glory because no one has heard this language in years cept kokopelli, dream catchers and a trail of beers my voice is a small pox blanket that spreads like fire on the prairie infecting both fist and hatchet in the spirit of fucking crazy - Ryan Red Corn

[pteyetu-waste-win]

Bad Indians by Ryan Red Corn. The 1491s.

[culturite]

Indigenous artists reclaim the right to self-representation | NPR CodeCheck

Good to see dope artists getting profiled. s/o to Jason Lujan (Apache), Sarah Sense (Choctaw/Chitimacha), and Ryan Red Corn (Osage) of the 1491s. 

"there is a body of artwork out there — produced by Native American artists and entrepreneurs — that asserts ownership over the images associated with their culture. Their work counters the existing 'non-Native' representations, questions these portrayals and provides new context"

Damn right.

[thisis-indianland]

I was told by those old ones that every song has a special time and place where its sang this is our song and this our time they used to say 'the only good indian is a dead indian' I must be a no good at being indian cause I feel alive and kicking we are the bastard reject children of 'manifest destiny' the offspring of fornicating aimsters raised by our grandparents who told us not to confuse being warriors with gangsters the edward curtis groupies get jazzed by anyone fitting the bill and America gets juiced by every Bury My Heart at Walmart film here I stand before you this crowd of nations this life of sanctions an awkward patience like five hundred BIA buildings vs. a fathers’ unfiltered hate right next to the IHS building with a two and a half week wait. a cinderblock battlefield where few are left standing and the people its failing, its’ marginalized estate. i am armed to the teeth with words from the ivory tower and those good indians told me its borrowed power if… if i talk loud enough if i talk clear enough that i would be heard that for some talking is singing that for some singing is praying but i guess that depends on who is doing the talking and i guess that depends on who is doing the listening …so understand me in english, you have been robbed of your tongues the taproot of thought in the middle of resisting the language got caught and she only shows her face during ceremony like she’s ashamed of her scars like what she has to say is never really heard. at all. and the violence she knows is enough to never sing again but i killed the cameraman and stripped him of his lense. i photographed the body and asked him to forgive. forgive me as i cut out your tongue forgive me as i put you in this powdered wig forgive me when i put your body in a museum forgive me of all my sins for not being a 'good indian' the balls of your forefathers will be traded for whiskey to fuel the molotov cocktails to be tossed at your cities and the breasts of your mothers severed and bloody will be sold to the freak show for the revelers money your children will witness their whole world collapse as kidnapped siblings must erase names off maps so forgive me of all my sins for not being a good indian i was taught better than that i have more respect than that there is no history book with my story there is no newspaper to give me my glory because no one has heard this language in years cept kokopelli, dream catchers, and a trail of beers my voice is a small pox blanket that spreads like fire on the prairie infecting both fist and hatchet -in the spirit of fucking crazy.

Ryan Red Corn

[everythingrhymeswithalcohol]

Bad Indians, a poem by Ryan Red Corn: Bad Indians, a poem by Ryan Red Corn: "here i stand before you / this crowd of nations in the middle of resisting / the language got caught / and she only shows her face during ceremony / like she's ashamed of her scars I killed the cameraman and stripped him of his lens. i photographed the body & asked him to forgive. forgive me as i cut out your tongue forgive me as i put you in this powdered wig forgive me as i put your body in a museum forgive me of all my sins for not being a good Indian"