Vestiges will linger while we pace and wait.

Generations died before the serfs were made to kiss the wheel,

Strap their twisted backs upon the clock and hammer glowing steel.

Slowly we'll relearn the right to sleep in late,

“Because the heavy fist of terror was always there in your pocket even when you smiled. Because you went forth to battle beneath the shameful flag of compromise and played The Battle Hymn of the Republic but never John Brown’s Body.”

“I’ve lived this life between. Not one, but two. My feet have walked in dream and stepped in blood. I’ve flown so far I know the music of a distant star, and I have slept in mud.”

Sip, and plot your destiny.

We swallow antibiotics as indiscriminate as our pesticides

And vote which color to paint our bombs.

“she danced the circle to call forth the spirits”

For empires crumble as I’ve been told, and in the rib-caged wreckage of gray leviathans I may glimpse some hint of the blueprint of this shared corruption. I may come to comprehend why I could never mend my own desolation. I may erase my station. - From Christopher Scott Thompson

The fisher king was never healed, they never meant for us to heal him. They only meant to conceal what we’d been fed, so they concealed him.

A poem from Twm Gwynne

A poem from T. Thorn Coyle