The Elders come to visit me in my sleep.
Mud Runner, a Medicine man with long grey hair swept back across his forehead by a red bandanna shows me the proper way to pour tobacco and cornmeal around the Wheel; teaches me to drink tobacco water to enter sacred space.
The next night I wake up chanting. The vision of an African man with short-cropped hair and steel gray eyes escorts me to the waking world on currents of whispered syllables.
We live in a world where sacred cattle are slaughtered. Where millions starve and social programs are shut down to fund the ever-increasing threat of global war. Our children’s lunches come from laboratories, and the oceans blacken with oil. Chemical spills and nuclear mishaps poison the Earth and the Sky. And the wealthy retreat to their enclaves and wait for the storm to pass.
The system is broken, and there’s nothing we can ever do to fix it.
We’ve swallowed the lies for so long now that most of us have become fat and lazy. We stretch and yawn a bit whenever something taps against the window, but rather than investigate, we shift our eyes back to the screen and wait for the commercial to end.
We bury ourselves in other men’s dreams and pay them for the privilege.
And yet the Elders visit me in my Sleep. . .