And so I chance upon a nation
of swarthy souled fundamentalists
opportunists
graffitists

They stake their claims in the wilderness
unmarked and unforgiven
young and crude
faithless

These barren wastes left behind a slaughter's memory are not
Well, the blood is long washed away, it cannot be
accusing, can it be
accursed?

The earth knows not how to refuse its tillage;
The rivers cannot but choose to flow downhill
in complicit
innocence

And out of sight of then and now, of blood and terror
Served blindly by what it calls God
This nation
demands all

11/25/99

Promised Land