From the Fishouse

That one day
we will wish
to be nothing more
than what we are.

That we will see
within ourselves
the liberation of nations, of concrete.

That we will understand
the inevitability
in the lines of our hands.

There is a war raging in our backyard
With it my sister’s spirit burns

That the fire of my sister’s spirit
will consume our enemies
& burn our streets clean.

There’s a system of mangled necks
Whose heads speak with oracle tongues

That we should learn to walk
with wounded feet

That our eyes must be liberated
from their granite

That our hands re-root themselves
from the pools of acid rain

There’s a river forming in the bureaucrat’s head
Its water made from rusted milk

That we may understand this false constructed world
& know:

Holy things
Do not die!