There is a ghostland somewhere near
Of spirits of the Earth
And aging oxygenated dirt
And there is hope and there is hate
But no one ever shows up late
O holy martyr
when you crossed the river
to be beaten by
the state troopers of the Promised Land
O redeemer of Dixieland
when you felt the clubs touch
skin and blood and blood touch dirt
Today the statues float in rivers and finally the citadels of false reverence are beginning to fall
What does it say about us
that we are obsessed with protecting the statues of the long-dead
