What is loss, said the devil who lost heaven
What is unforgivable, to the priest.
This is the story: each of us gets to strike
our villains just once, and then
we start down a death road that doesn’t end.
On the road to Damascus I found
a lake with a sword buried
inside it’s silt,
and my men died of hunger and thirst
when lightning struck it took away their language.
We were marsupials, Cro-magnon Men
Refused to deal with the problem of thought and
We raised castles of sand beaten down
by Hebrew horns
Cast lots on our bodies and burned as salt.
They raised men with horse legs to fight us,
women with castrated breasts, all put down
imprisoned on islands and in mazes and bastilles
Crete and Elba hold monsters alike.
Hold, take to rivers with bullets in you
And ride to that blue mosqued city, full of concussion
words will appear on your walls, in fire:
In the future you will stake men to trees.
They have stones enough to knock and press us
Lions and wolves and racks and maidens of iron
I have waited in the tower these twenty years.
Ovens left angel-led, stockpiled shoes
Slaves to build monuments to sun and water gods
, tobacco, blues.
Lord wash away the iniquity of dirty hands
As we hide bodies in the dirt
We shall reach no deterministic land
looking how we look, with color.