Zachary Suri

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