The following is an excerpt from the beginning of my book, "Ogallala: the rise of Morning Sun". It is currently being edited by my publisher. Hopefully, they will be kind to me. I'm pretty jealous of my words. It takes place about 2030. Preferably, it will be out by then! It's been at the publisher for almost a year.
To set it up:

John Gall was elected Governor of Nebraska. He led his state into a great economic upheaval that created extreme happiness for his people and a jealous rage from President Joshua Reston, who hated the Indian Governor. Gall infuriated the president by over-turning a sanctions policy, by sending shipments of benevolent goods to nations swept up in the great famine of the third decade of the 21st century. After the President resigned, celebrations happened throughout the country, as Americans began using Gall’s philosophy as a means of over-turning their own political, and economic, problems. Unbeknownst to these people, the political powers had already put an assassin on the trail of Governor Gall. John “Morning Sun” Gall was assassinated after giving the great talk to his people. The story begins:

The deadly pellet had been inside John Gall's body for two hours. He began failing, when suddenly, his Harley Davidson ran up one of the Sand Hills and crashed in a burning inferno.
His end came quick, and sure. It was a split second in time. During his final thought, he came to a resonance, containing an Aura. The Aura spoke:

“You are the one called Lakota?”
“I am!” the Aura examined him carefully.
“Yes, yes you are.”
Why am I here?“ John thought.
“You are inside the stillness, of the silent path, to your final moment. You have looked into your world with the eyes of the Prophet and you are deemed necessary to save your system.”
“Do I still live?”
“Yes, you still live within the whisper of words; this is a thought that lingers. It has been said that you think your world is worth saving. What is it about your kind that can be saved?”
“May I ask who it is that speaks to me?”
“In your people words, I would be called Wakatanka.”
“You are the great spirit?”
“We come to communicate so that you will understand.”
“What is it that I must understand?”
“You have already shown much that is good. We want to know if your people are worthy of continuing.”
“I believe that our people are good in their heart. I believe they can become the kind people they once were. I believe in my kind, with all my soul.”
“You shall rise then, and go!”
“Iyala,” John whispered the word of his warrior side.
“Go John Gall, and lend your kind, the words of the Prophet!”
So it was, that John Gall rose.

Gall, a man of the Indian Nation (As told by John “Two Crows”)

“It was told, by the elders, that he rose from the smoke of the morning fire, as the Warriors prepared for hunting, and battle. It was said that he was the stone that sharpened the spear; he became the eyes that saw the Bird; they said that he was the ear that heard the thunder of the Buffalo; his face was in the Moon; he was the light of the Stars that walked across the heaven;.and, he was the laughter of the children playing. So, the story goes:”
“There was this human man, who came to the Earth, somewhere near Spotted Horse, Wyoming, where the Crazy Woman and Powder Rivers join. He came into his life, from the home of his Earth Mother, as the Sun rose into the morning, over the far horizon. For this, his Father, Wabli Ate or, “Eagle Father”, held him high to the Air, and named him “Hinhanni Apawi or, “Morning Sun”. He came to hunt like the Eagle, with an all-seeing eye; he had the strength of the Bear, standing tall in the forest; he could run with the Deer; but he knew of no fear, for he was Sioux. In those, long ago, days he would hunt, fish, and play, beneath the dreaming, open, sky of the great upper world. In Winter times, he would track the Fox, and the Rabbit, to bring food for his family.”
“His early life was outside the men of suits, and gold so, he learned much that was good. He went to the white people’s schools and, found much of their knowledge already known. It was easy for him to understand their numbers, for he had been taught, by his elders, that all of life is within the numbers. But, he found their history of the peoples was flawed with lies. This history was filled with ‘wica gnaye’ (wa-cone-‘yeh), or tricks, especially when it concerned his own people; or if it concerned people who wanted nothing but to left to live their lives. He had heard the real History from his elders. Their mouths told of the real Earth; an honest respect for the Water, and the Air they breathed; for this was the God, of the Great Spirit.”
“It was at the White people’s school that he was named him John Gall. This was good for, “Gall” was an Indian name. The Indian Warrior, “Gall”, a great leader to those humans, who defeated Custer at the Big Horn River. It was the way of white people, then, to think themselves above all others, in the spirit world; to turn all people to think their visions of life. They never took the thought from our head, or our word away from Indian lips. They never took the spirit!”
“Hinhanni Apawi grew tall, and strong. He could look into the Horse’s eyes. He spoke to them often, of their days together. He knew them well and, they knew him, for he was Sioux. He was the Warrior leader. We knew this to be true.”
“His Father lay dying and, called Hinhanni Apawi to his bed side. “
“You must go soon, my son,” his Father told him. “Go to where the wind blows the sand into Hills. Follow the great Platte River to your destiny. You will know when to do this. The wind will speak to you and, you will become the great “Wicasa Waka” of your new people. After I am gone go, quickly, to where the Crazy Woman and Powder rivers join.”
“Go now, Apawi!” John’s Mother spoke to him, “Your Father carries the weight of dying. You must leave your Father to his journey. He must find his rest.”
“After his Father’s passing, Apawi went to where the two waters meet. He sat upon a large rock, chewing the straw of thinking. He thought of his young days, running free, into the valley of waters. He did not want to leave his home. He went into a dreaming and, saw a great Warrior on a painted Horse. The Warrior rode up to him.”
“Why do you sit, while your new people suffer!” the Warrior challenged him. “You must go!” the Warrior pointed east. “Their leaders continue to steal from them; and lie to them! You must go!”
“The Indian Warrior jumped from his horse and, walked up to Apawi piercing an eye, with his. Apawi stood up, straight, tall, and strong, to the Warrior’s eye. Apawi knew what he was to do. The Warrior leaped upon his great, painted, Horse, let out a cry that filled all of the valley, and road off into the upper world.”
“Hinhanni Apawi, Iyala!” he cried, riding away in the wind.”
“Iyala, go!” Hinhanni Apawi heard the cry of the Warrior, trailing away into the distance.”
“Apawi went to his home; packed a roll; said good bye to his Mother, and the children; then, held council with the Elders. They all bobbed their heads, in talk, of his coming journey. The elders all agreed, this was to be. He had been seen, coming to the Earth.”
“Traveling across the plains on foot he came to a large, windy, hill. He didn’t know where he was but, his Father had told him: “windy hills where the great Platte flows”. There he spent the days and nights living with the Birds and Animals, in a great peace. He knew to suffer the days. His pain and hunger served his mind well. In the comfort of his life, in Wyoming, he had never known suffering like this. It fed him with a power to know the world and its people; he knew of their suffering. He was growing, in the human virtue, of his life.”
“A very hot sun rose on John Gall. He was very hungry and hurting. A Bird flew down to his camp and, walked up to John Gall, giving itself to him, for food. John grabbed the bird holding it in his big hands. He opened his hands, telling the Bird to fly away. Later, two Crows flew down to John Gall’s camp.”
“What is it, you say to me?” he said to the Crows.”
“Your suffering will end with the rising Moon,” he heard. “In the moment of your greatest pain, you will be released.”
“That night, the Moon rose upon the sweeping plains. Gall knew his suffering would soon be done. Beneath a hallowed Moon, Hinnhani Apawi prayed to the Great Spirit.”
“Please hear my voice and let me hear yours,” he spoke loudly. “Speak your words so that I may know my cause. What is this, that I am to become? My stature is not that of a King, for my head does not fit the crown. Should my hand fit the rake, or the sword? And, who would dare call this Warrior their King!” Then, John Gall went into another dream, with his last thought. “Let your life now guide you to your destiny!” he heard. It was thought that he died that night. I know this to be true. This is the way it was told to me by my Father’s Father. I am”:
-John “Two Crows.
From "Ogallala: the rise of Morning Sun". I hope you like it.

I love you guys!
Joe

Occasional tumbles from ancient dress of long-lodged, fallen, rock
tumble fast as feathers beneath a sky much older than the stone.
We become linked, drawn away from the cities, that ride our eyes lonesome.
Passengers in celestial flow; the Father, winding water, in definition’s wake;
we quake for an instant, seeking soft quiet, we contemplate the cost of air.
Not a sudden violence; but, time’s cleansing of the grief in channels of ruptured rock,
she hides within her beauty, and bears no mind to an untaken vision.
What claimed the native eye and blessed it, spiritual. She does not need praise,
for those who follow must reverence, and pity all history that mistrust these spaces.
Holding all expected rages, being servant to her crag-vented hands,
points the finger, at what eyes cannot see for themselves
that she, alone, contains the life’s secret passage; yes, the way.
She knows others leave lands, to sea, for gazes into her endless permanence.
So, take away only that which your vision donates,
for your picture pales beneath her jealously guarded gaze.
Suffering lends to her massive crags; she has been here for mere all of time.
Still unbowed, shakeless, forever, into wisdom’s, infinite continuing,
she sends those messages about the value of dancing and togetherness.
Eyes can take home, only what the camera of the soul sees;
Long has she stood unspectacular to those in blindness to time’s surrender.
The sun will always shine; the wind will endless ride upon the earth;
snow will fall all vanished to her womb-depth river flows.
The rain will glist soft to her ancient, rocky skin,
hardened by the ages of sunning reflection’s face.
Evaporate hands upon her grieving, brief, station.
Standing here, forever is not that far away.
When earth is stilled of human form, she is in mere mourning, morning.
A Godding gift to the breathing air;
the visual to her waters’ eventual wisdom;
a mystery expression of the Mother of Earth.
To tame her mustang’s flare; first, become the wind;
to match her beauty, is to catch a rainbow’s colors; and dance upon the sun.
Jammed corners of air; heartful to an unending, servant, rivered, water;
come to our common-ground Native’s savior; the Earth, for they thought her human.
The eye lays upon landed vision to sound the brain electric.
Delivered senses, carry riverbed impulse on mind, into the peaks of the soul.
A distant perpetual image cannot manage living. It must bear a soul to live.
It lives within what life it gives, and it, gives, only, life.
Perhaps this is the son of the Earth-an ancient child in loving embrace of mind.
For a moment so blessed, we have to return it for others to take the gift so freely given.
This is the Native’s holy house; we have come only to dream, they to worship.
I, in resign, cast my fate to her wind, and pray;
I have seen the birthplace of paradise.

Joe

On that bright day they shot us, they went to there heaven from here; and some of we went with them.
We vowed revenge; our face was taken to tears for our own, who were wronged by their faith!
We roared our powerful Lion, and blessed them with ‘shock and awe’!
We bent them to there knees with bombs and killing machines,
their houses folded to rubble, many children died, in the WRONG PLACE of our enemies.

The snarling wench behind the curtains of green; hides the underneath garments between
the thigh of smoldering lust, to wean ourselves from a devil's Tea.
It is the way to stay on a fragile bench, so no eyes intervene
Agendas of gold more important than life; an investor’s greed bows to its need
“We’re wrong,” says the poor man. “You’re right,” says the rich man, “but you’re wrong!”
Dismantle the queen for she is not what she seems; she is the son of a witch!
Our heads fall, in disbelief; how can we be so disturbed by our own devise?
We take them all to a hole in the world, to think their lives away.
While their children cry, we take their mind, their dignity, their free breath, their way of death!
Behind the green curtain, we guard the prisoner who doesn’t have words;
chain the hand that doesn’t steal our bread; their own insecure minds relentlessly purged.
Behind the green curtain, a blameless arrest; the poor, unintended, taken from their nest.
In a fever, we attempt to bring down their start; in the garden of God, we bring no heart.
We bring the machines, carrying death to the unfaithful's cross;
our presense is venting our hatred, for them by colors of our cloth
The God has our inference, false premised. He looks at us in hallowed disgust;
what sword has this day, been taken, to kill this child?

While our friends feared our ignorance, our enemies laughed and danced at our pain.
The world horrified, came to think us insane! We continued to lie in the face of our stain.
Is there an answer to this constant interest to kill for the faith of another's God?
The faith is not wrong; it is the war that is so odd!

Did you ever have a fly land on your hand and you have to decide if he’s going to die?
Do you kill him on your hand, fouling your skin with his bloody body?
Just before you unload your shock ‘n awe, he’s gone. Do you know why?
Because he’s free! Free from your shock ‘n awe, he’s free! Free from the killer’s law, he’s free.
So be free! Get your freedom to fly, and be free!

Did you ever wonder where the moon goes, when it leaves your sky?
Does it go to some other place where lovers can wonder?
Is it as beautiful there, as it is when you see it? Is the Moon any different when they look upon it?
Do others kiss beneath it like we do? Aren’t they the same as we? Are they any less? Aren't they the same we?
Yes they are, oh yes!

God of my life, let there be peace in this world, especially for the children.
Joe