By Nate Davis
Late one eve,
Or shall we say
Early the next morn,
An obnoxiously sauced,
Tricked and sickened,
Pre-Colombian American
Glared
In the direction
Where
A moon beams reflection
Hinted of men with white skin
And short-lived grins were
In the distance
Whose technologies
Would not stop in the
Face of any resistance
And the ideals
that enable such control
Trapping inhabitants
both young and old
Must change,
For patterns of unjust
pain and isoloation,
Of course,
are subject to destruction.