. .

When will we end these
nightmares of Peace?
And how many brown palms has the white man greased?

Does harmony get placed on our tongues by our priests?

One day our hearts will grow too big for the future and our
Hands will dwarf the rope that trails back to our fathers' graves
We're probably trying too hard,
anyways

I've got to stop being afraid of your death,
Maybe I'll get you some Universal Healthcare
or maybe
A big
fucking gun?

Sometimes you could get the old
turnstile machines to take wooden nickels
But that doesn't work anymore
Now you have to steal your freedom outright, sneak in behind
somebody else
This land is your land,
This land is my land and we're just not sure where it stops anymore.
And if you mention Manifest Destiny
one more time
I'm going to pick up this dirt and throw it at you,
I swear to God.

Line up, children, I want to see a straight line
You're about to see Ultimate Truth
pressed between two pieces of bulletproof glass and then we'll
eat our bag lunches out on the steps.

Ghosts live here, don't they?
Amidst vaulted ceilings, absurd obelisks, and discarded freeze-dried ice cream wrappers;
The land here vibrates like your grandparents' old farmhouse.

It's time to, finally, cultivate a few new endings.

. .