there is a longing for salvation
in We, the guilty.
the self-proclaimed innocents.
but imperialism’s imperative scathes us.
we, the dirt, even in revolution -
desires awry: we force, we maim,
and yes, we kill -
but for the realization of
our prophet Democracy.
peace be upon her.
she is our body, our collective.
in our civil wars and world wars
we have searched and search still in
Culture’s purgative rhetoric
for her meaning as our machines
repetitively wilt us,
molt us, prod us, towards
the stupor, the haze of catharsis.
we dig mass racial graves
on economic bargain,
and social and religious ones too –
every body should be counted.
we crucify and dismember ourselves
she weeps salvation for us,
the poor, the tired masses.
yearning and huddled
our litany becomes tongue-stuck
and word-full at the wonder of it all.
but her ears catch empty.
she scampers to free herself
from the yoke of our capitalistic theocracy
but we language her soul
into corporate personhood.
the demonic mnemonic habits of men always
harmonic hysteric mystics
as Eleusis lucidly remembers
future descent into death,
forgetful father God turns away
from the rail of corpses.
his challenger, Democracy,
becomes open wounds
and protruding bones
to litter occupied streets.
the bedrooms of houses
turned in by children
the shattered girls left in stairwells
call out to HIM for comfort,
but we, humankind, always make
good attempts to patch, to hide,
to sweep under our history
the stale crumbs of our failed attempts
to summon her by sacrifice.
God, for his part, notices nothing
and forgives us, his rebellious children,