co(c on) spirat (ors)

Dear God, I am Poor and Restless

And I will beat him with my fists like a dog;

Dig with my fingernails at his eyeballs.

This will be sweet relief.

This will be the end of me.

We men, we are sickening.

I will maintain my birthright;

Sleep soundly with pleasant dreams—

I do not question my motives.

The grass grows tall like a child.

The hills roll like hills.

Even I remember Eden,

Thought I know my father’s sins.

Speech Given at the Battle of Bunker Hill

Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.

And if they are not white enough,

Do not shoot at all.

We will not kill those who are

Yellowed like jaundice;

Weak livers leaking.

Guns shaking with the cowardice

of the unwell.

We will take them in,

Belittle them with shouted malice.

Call ourselves honorable.

We will ride our horses west—

Gather us tracts of land.

Gather us native women.

Retire imperially.

Sit in our rocking chairs,

Staring out into the land and say,

“You are forgiven.”