Were I to dwell a day

in the den of my enemies.



What would we say

of the corpses they ******

and threw in the corner?



Their history torn to ribbons

and chained to the same toilets

from which they garner

their greatest thoughts and values.



How many burning crosses

would dawn their books?



How many hoods for the wash?



Who-


pray-tell



does the washing?



The husks of flesh cut into pounds

festering on a shelf somewhere.


Once colored and cultured,

now decaying,

both in smell and in sight.



All by design.



At an oaken feasting table.



I see them eat the termites

as appetizers.



So many holes, it looks like dry split bone.



Some monstrous creature

that never had blood to spill.



From the corner of their slack jawed mouths

I see the wine swish
and drip
and drench.



They talk about Andrew Jackson
 and the Civil War.



As I fight the urge

to light myself on fire.