There is a part of all of us so-called oppressed peoples hiding in the west at strip malls and restaurants colleges amusement parks slabbed in ginger google owl misfits and wanna be Grace Paileys afraid to run Coney Island in the snow
She waits for a crisis he awaits his just outrage so that we can behave as we've always wished, like heroes no longer traitors in act or in spirit we can turn away from the bourgeois dream they sold us in full repulsion disdain the comfort and convenience brought about by centuries of war and pain touch the land without shame touch the machine and wince, sleepwalk no more But in that same nook of our shattered hearts we loved the role of the moral custodian from behind the oak and glass podium in the brick forum built by slaves and the ghetto combustibles assembled by tiny women in factories and the berries farm workers picked for us, their sweet rot on our lips, You have no name in the streets, no ones image to clean up you, baptized in blood and paper and selective forgetting are the dirty lie and the music of its undoing
