Joel Waters

2011-12-20T14:16:00.001-08:00

SOVEREIGN EROTICSHere's a link to a new anthology I am currently a part of, its an amazing collection-the first of its kind and I am very proud to be a part of it

2011-11-19T01:32:00.000-08:00

Minotaur what bullshit the government spewed about uswhile licking cleanthe land of milkand honeyand just how manystill worshipthat golden calfwe call americajust raise up your flagnew Atheniansyou'll never understandthis landwill never be just your landfor centuriesthey've scoffedand blew smokeup their own assestelling themselvesthat we were the heathen onesthe savage in his loinclothmaking a

2010-09-20T22:33:00.000-07:00

For The Girl Who Painted RoachesWe grew up in the same trash heap of povertyscavenging for any kind of affectionbut often we were hatedfor the way we lookedand got the wrong kind of attentionthey say roachesare afraid of the lightbut it is not becauseof some kind of darksins they need to hidehow often did our ownfears send us scatteringwanting to hide inside wallswhenever someone came to punch

2010-03-24T23:41:00.001-07:00

UPDATEMy poem Kid Icarus has been picked up for an as yet to be titled anthologydue out sometime this year.

2009-11-26T06:22:00.000-08:00

an afterthoughti am a pharaohpainted on a casket faceand i dare not crack a smilefor if i do all of the colorswould bleedand that would be the endof pretty little stoic menot much remains behind my garmentsyou can open my mouth and seethere is no mention of youand what was sacred is shriveled upor embalmed in canopic jarswaiting to be ransackedit is just me in my apt nowthe heiroglyphsgo

2009-01-19T10:32:00.000-08:00

Here's a good review in Rapid City Journalthat I was interviewed forShedding Skins Review in RCJ

2008-12-04T15:30:00.000-08:00

Januswhy not shut my eyes up on megod of gates and doors?with a stinging wincei cannot bear witnessto my life anymore---to any true meaningi have shut downat thirtybut am somewhere past fiftynow it seems i can'teven have a simple ragethe pheonix flewbut walked back to the cagemy mind falls like feathersi pop a pill---one good idea, perhaps twomanages to permeatethrough the gilded lids"not good

2008-08-25T15:15:00.000-07:00

DOG DAYSThe days here do not movethey drag on like a dog pulling its dead legsand there is simply nowhere to get tothey just fester and blisterin the fullblown sunsnapping at me like a wild thingit's hot sour breathmelts me to sinewy meatI am overwhelmedby the manginessof my povertyan itch that cannot be scratcheda past that cannot be passedI long for the dayswhen my eyes stared glossy---a simple

2008-06-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

KID ICARUSEvery Indian has a silver liningI thought to myselfAs I saw a young skinTrying to fly through downtown Pine RidgeAmidst all the dirt cloudsHe had speckles of silver paintAround his mouthAnd zeppelins That were his fingertipsMaking zig zagsAcross the airBut he was going nowhereI’d thought had the spray paintBeen goldHe’d be IcarusBefittingly burnt by the sunWhat mangy wings we haveUnable

2008-02-14T17:36:00.000-08:00

Hello. Just an update.The new book that I am in along with three other talented writers can now be preorderedat the following links:SHEDDING SKINSShedding Skins: 4 Sioux Poets

2007-12-03T20:55:00.000-08:00

WHITE CLAY PIGEONSIn White Clay, Nebraska I go shopping with my sisterfor groceries“It’s cheaper here…” she says,“…Because no one wants to come here.”upon checking outthe buzzard ladyscowls at the food stamp cardready to pick the stereotypes from our bonesbut then she smilesat my niece’s pretty little faceand leaves us quietly aloneoutside the storea broken wingIndianstumbles to our car

2007-03-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

*NOT CHINESESmall towns seem to duplicate themselvesAs ignorance shits out ignoranceMaking a franchise out of my hell.“No, I’m not going to steal from your store!”I want to yell to the old white lady Eyeing me from behind the counter.“After all…that’s what your taxes are for.”And I know that I should let karma do its job,But I’m not that kind of Indian anyway.I’m the one with the feather, not the

2007-03-12T13:21:00.000-07:00

*JAPANESE GARDENSIn the Japanese gardensI wait for the H-Bombto drop.I feel likethe little treesthey have cut and trimmedinto a forced bonsai.As fake as the bamboo house that I sit in.Concentrating, like the campsthe U.S. governmentput our people in.First the Indians,and then Japanese Americans.Preserving culturesby putting up a fence.Keeping it safe from usas though we planto hara-kiri.We should

2007-02-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

*UPDATE*just got news three more of my poems will be appearing in a journalcalled Yellow Medicine Reviewput out by Minnesota State University.it will feature my poems:BEING WHITE THE GREAT AMERICAN POW WOW SUGARWATER.you can find them all here for a limited time and after that well, you can check them out in the journal above.

2006-08-08T22:24:00.000-07:00

RABBIT'S FOOTWas it your luckthat always brought my mother back to you?---A wishful thinking?Or did you use a horseshoe?I have always tried to make sense of it.---The habitual offensiveness.With my black eyesAnd an eight ball that always says, "Sorry, try again."And the bucktoothYou almost knocked loose.Because I wouldn't eat the greensYou'd put out for me.Yellow squash, purple eggplants.They all

2006-07-18T14:42:00.000-07:00

SUGAR WATERSugar water,The stuff they always put in my bottleWhenever there wasn’t anymore milk.I remember shaking my bottleLike a rattleTo see how empty it was.And then looking up to full moon faces,But the smiles were the half moonsThat I always searched for.Nevermind the other drunks.They are see-thru.Just their anger appears to us.A black-outline.Like Taurus.I remember the smellOf their

2006-06-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

Just got my copy of this fabulous book that gives me the courage to write again.It is so beautifully written and put togetherIt was nice to be a part of it especially with all those great writers. Those of you who read me out thereshould really think about picking this up. It's a great follow up to GENOCIDE OF THE MIND. Both edited by the amazingMarijo Moore and both have a poem by little ol'

2006-06-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

YELLOW PRAIRIESCountry music always haunts me.The twang of the guitar strings--Takes me to the bad memoriesAnd in the vast landsOf prairie grass--The color of pee stainson a white clay man's pants,or the dead dreams of an Indian.This earth is dying.The Black Hills herselfIs just an old charcoal heart,Barely survivingThe cardiac arrestFrom the fat of her land.Even the activists just smoke her

2006-04-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

COOL NEWS:Just got word from Adrian Louisour anthology *as yet to be titled* just got picked up by a publisherwhich will feature several of my poemsincluding works by Trevino Brings Plenty,Luke Warm Water, Steve Pacheco, and Adrian himself<--i think.This is so fucken awesome!

2006-03-29T14:06:00.000-08:00

pole dancinghot summer days and nightsi wait for the time to shinebright as the aztec sunwhose face shines down uponmei am in the spotlight nowno food, no waterjust the sufferingthat i must adapt tofor all the indian lovers,the wannabe'sthe entire crowd is waitingfor me to be their fooland i ask of you is this indian enough?or do you wanna seemore sioux siouxpeering through the loin clothas i

2006-02-06T12:36:00.000-08:00

REZ CARS CRASHseems like all my lifehas been just bits and piecesof junk cars, rez carsloud and explodingas they pass me bylike some bad nightmarei have to open my eyesand everyone i knowjust gives a part of themselvesa junkyard of livingand then they diewithout me truly knowing themseems like everytime i try to fix up my lifeand make it shinei break downand i end uphiding insidemy family's

2006-01-30T12:33:00.000-08:00

INDIAN COUNTRY TODAY:wow, i made it into Indian Country Today. if it weren't for adrian pointing it out to me i would've never known.ty. it's an essay i wrote last semester for a scholarship but was never made aware they were going to publish it. the bio is a little wrong and the i hate the pic but it's cool to see me somewhere. below is the link.Joel Waters in Indian Country Today

2006-01-26T11:55:00.000-08:00

the remains of me (reworked)the remains of mehave been scattered here and theretorn to shreds by enemiesthe rest died with a loveri scattered out like starsthe vast prairie hillsstill show my scarsscattered like glassfrom a car crashi pass through the arealike the way wind blows trashno fence can hold meno landfilli am even on the highwayslike roadkilli remainwith the burial groundsno

2006-01-26T10:55:00.000-08:00

THOUGHTS:working on my first novel again has brought a wave of memories back to me. it's a fiction piece that i finished years ago about the very first friends i had in my life who meant a lot to me. i finished it in 2001, sent it off to get critiqued and was very disappointed with it. then life got in the way, school, job, falling in love, etc. i shelved it for several years. i just didn't have

2006-01-25T11:16:00.000-08:00

THOUGHTS: i have just finished typing up an essay that took me about 40 min. it's for a class i need to finish, but i think it's so good that i'm thinking about sending it to a journal or something. maybe redink or lakota times or something native american. it's about the blatant racism hidden, yet not, in network shows, or rather cartoons. i watch a lot of comedic stuff to improve my standup

2006-01-23T10:15:00.000-08:00

UPDATE:my poetry has always been confessional. i write the things i endured and still endure, and most would say it's rather dark and depressing, but that life sometimes. although i had a rough life, and am still an artist in the bowels of poverty i can't complain. i used to hate living on the reservation. but moving from pine ridge to rosebud, sd isn't all that bad because i've lived in three

2005-12-14T16:07:00.000-08:00

*this was a true story that took placein sioux falls, sd. an indian man was caughthaving sex with a mannequin, and it saddenedand delighted me so."man with the mannequinthey caught him thereat the pavilionsaid he'd been there beforegot the plastic stain to prove itthey caught him right above herfondling the fakesexposition you have to put yourself inand the testimonywas never quite clearthey've

2005-11-16T16:27:00.000-08:00

the time they shot the horses1985cruel summerthe year they shot the horseson grandpa's landthe ricochet bouncedthrough many headsafter thatas we counted the bodiesdead in the pastureand it must've been likewounded knee all overas the blood floweddown the hillthis was not our warthis was not our killonly one remained thereafter the slaughterone little ponystanding next to hisdead motherand i

2005-11-15T15:30:00.000-08:00

Rest In PeaceVine Deloria Jr.1933-2005

2005-11-01T12:26:00.000-08:00

eating the dogyou were cruel like thatbone barecrunching my teethwith yourseyes wild like a coyote'si never dared to matchthe gazeand when you inhaledyour cocainelike a wolfyou knew the fear in methe rest of you harbouredlike fleasyou made me feal mangymany timesi tried to bite your handand we both wonderedwho got the rabiesit was not iit would never be memy tribe eats dogsand in ceremonies--

2005-10-26T14:52:00.000-07:00

the foodstamp fightsthe war began at homelike the way it always doesthe wounds get more saltwhen it’s done by those you lovecounting the sorrowslike food stampsone, two, threeblows to the headone more bookletand for sureI’d have been deadMomma used to get drunkAnd send me to the storeTold me to make changeFrom the food stampsAnd it was a sweet exchangeI with the sweet toothTheir livers rottedIn

2005-10-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

spirits underneath an artificial blue skythe boards in the house are loosesome are rotting awayothers have been peeled backthe black moldhas filled their cheststhere is no breathing roombut we still live herethe walls have beencracked like smilesby angry fists and clumsykid handsi have written on these wallsan unfinished epitaphstains mark the wallslike liver spotssome are chipped and showing the

2005-10-13T11:58:00.000-07:00

Some of the things that influence me in a big way is what I am listening toat the time that I write. Music can somehow manage to set the mood to a particular mindframe of thinking. If i want to write something dealing with emotion, for instance--I really dive into music like Nina Simone or something like This Mortal Coil or Sarah Mclachlan.Other times if I want my poems to have a certain kind of

2005-10-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

I have decided to update some links. Some people already know who they are. I just wanted to post them so anyone who wants to know will know what I like to read and what's been influencing me lately. Also I'd like to put here what i've been watching and I recommend these movies to all. The HoursSylviaGirl, InterruptedMonsterBoys Don't CryFoxfireThese are just some of the movies I own and as you

2005-09-21T16:20:00.000-07:00

out of the maggot comes a flyi flew out out of you dear faggotin which twenty years i have rottedbeing ashamedcoiled and wrinkledlike an uncut penisand there was a buzzthe noisethat rang in my headthere was a soul floweringrising from things deadborn out of the limbsof a relativei have your eyesyour noseand a lord's foreheadi am of the flies.my eyes reddry and crackedwith a thousand imagesof just

2005-09-21T10:52:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to me!My poem Japanese Gardenshas been picked up to be publishedin an anthology due out next year.

2005-04-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

sardineeverytime i'm drunki becomelike the chicken of the seaeverything realgoes out with the yellow leakmy body like a tin can junk carlike the kind my grandpaused to sleep inevery car i seei want it to be my coffinjust hammer in the nailsso i won't get freeaccidentshave always been my thingin my suicidesi've tried to cut it with a razorand drown it in the riverbut all i get is foammany years of

2005-03-08T12:52:00.000-08:00

cherrycherry, cherrythat's what they called meever sincethe blood was made to flowlike the time that boy hit meand made it come out of my nosehe wanted me to be weak like a girlthey used to call me cherrybecause one daysomeone dressed me uplike a little dolli stood four feet tallbut still it was a long fallas they knocked meto the floorthey were sickened by meas i did a twirlfor them, for themit

2005-02-17T12:16:00.000-08:00

sauerkrautlike cabbage i opened up to him, just a kidbut my fear became like foldsand i was in full bloom to himmy dreams like sauerkrautpickled up in old mason jarsand stored in a closetwhere no sun could get tofor years i lived like thatuntil i was ripe enough to pass onthe bodysnatchbut no garden will ever be madefrom mefor i will not let anyonereap for what i have sowedinstead i keep it

2005-01-18T23:29:00.000-08:00

love's ghost dance i have armoured myself from the bows and arrows used my breast plate to the fullest but the irony of this world always has a bullet my love you became my ghost shirt but you wouldn't allow the dance and so i became vulnerable to love's early death lies are light as feathers when they've gone unknown but my headdress became heavy as i carried the burden knowing i'd lose you

2004-06-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

just a little tidbit for all of you who read my site. my friend, my mentor Mr.Adrian Louis, dedicated a poem for me in his new book Evil Corn which you can find through his website. just click on his name. the poem is called Post-Traumatic Skin Disorder from a little joke we both share. i've been reading evil corn for two days now and find it funny as hell as well as unique and powerful in only

2004-06-09T19:15:00.000-07:00

wannabe i used to be able to walk downtown pine ridge anytime i wanted but now i can't even go a block without some dumb young cock flashing like a siren the affiliation he's representing even children have that hardcore attitude and i think "better black than white?" but either way it does me no good because i know how quickly things can become ghetto as we bust out our windows and spray

2004-05-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

zoo world i have found myself being the minority again as people in shopping malls and down the school halls look at me like i'm a zoo and what will i do? but play a stereotype that fits their perceptions of what they think is an indian i grow tired of their zebra thoughts because it is not always so black and white sometimes chamelion, sometimes ape-like because every person that's not

2004-04-05T03:59:00.000-07:00

dandelions she used to pick potatoes and other vegetables along with her dad she grew up like that she grew as big as she could in a shack next to a huge farmhouse where there were plenty of rooms to store the dreams only she could've imagined and then came seventeen in the mid-seventies she had to harvest her sins she had to bring another life in my older brother who would sit for five

2004-03-05T17:10:00.000-08:00

reckoning i saw some boots pointed witchy like yours and i looked for a buckle, a moustache, and a horse -smell like yours but it was only a manufacture of you like manure from a cow and i got some on my shoe somewhere out there is a cowboy being born and an indian becomes less than tell me dears how do you take your porn? do you like it soft or prefer it hardcore? do i dare to call you pa?

2004-02-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

this is an older poem of mine that i wrote a few years back about how it was like living in pine ridge at my grandpa's old house and it is a place where i still go to in dreams--but they are never pleasant ones. I believe that there are certain places that can truly haunt even though it's been years or even decades. JW. Pine Ridge Wonderland in a two bedroom boxhouse colored like an

2004-01-30T15:35:00.000-08:00

I wanted to talk a little about a couple of things I am published in. The recent thing that I appear in is called GENOCIDE OF THE MIND which thanks to my friend Marijo Moore who helped me get published in that. My segment is called "Indians in the Attic" funny I know--but it serves a purpose. The other thing i was published in was an issue of Red Ink I put two poems in there one was called "Not

2004-01-27T16:56:00.000-08:00

linoleum heart i used to walk barefoot on the linoleum the sticky beer stuck to me like men's stuff sticks there's a kind of dirtiness one can get used to i know what lies in beercans i used to collect them when i was a kid until that night a man knocked down my pyramid i know what lies in the gazes of drunk men i've collected them i collect them i remember playing with toy cars i used to

2004-01-25T16:53:00.000-08:00

snap i held you between my fingers somewhere between all the beer and cigarettes and my skin became yellow with the thoughts rotting and maybe even dreams rotting and the only thing that's coming that's still beating are the bar flies buzzing i kept you for too long like preserves in a mason jar and no matter how many times i crash a car i still walked away with thoughts of you i couldn't drop

2004-01-25T16:33:00.000-08:00

wasna i used to eat wasna when i was a kid and many times after that in my dreams spiritual food some might say while others warn don't take food from the dead in your sleep it's a trick you see to take you to the other side i loved to eat it as a kid because it looked like sand and so i'd pretend that it was unlike all those mudpies made from pee that other boys made me eat as a child i built

2004-01-25T16:26:00.000-08:00

the outhouse the outhouse still stands behind my grandma's house as a reminder of where i come from of where i've been and that it was not so long ago that we used to use it the way the government used us no flush no flush it still stands there piling up like a reminder that my family in pine ridge still uses one my grandma lives on the rosebud reservation i'm tired of saying where i come from