The greatest Americans have not been born yetnThey are waiting patiently for the past to dienPlease give bloodnThose crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning bushnWhere is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on, purified by native blood, has rooted trees who’s fallen leaves now color coat a savored list of demandsnWho among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news?nThe anchorman thrown overboard has simply rooted us in histories repeating cycle.nA nation in its saddened years that wont acknowledge karmanWhere is the voice from nowhere, the ones your prophets spoke of?nThere are voices from fear disconnected from their diaphragms, dangling from coffee covered teeth that spill into our laps and scorch our privatesnThere are voices from the sides of necks, some already noosed, dangling participles pronouns running for sentencenServing life in corner offices and ghetto corners, their voices are the samenDead to themselves, numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that which they can palm in their hands, periodnThere are voices of elders, which seem to do no more than damn us to our childish waysnFor in many households, wisdom no longer comes with agenSo where is that voice from nowhere, that burning bush, that passing dove?nI hear the voices of generals calling for ammunition, presidents calling for arms, women calling for helpnWhere is that voice from nowhere, that god of Abraham?nCan he be heard over the gunfire, the whiz of passing missiles, the crash of buildings, the cries of children, the crack of bones, the shriek of sirens?nOr is that his mighty voicenYour angry god craving the sacrifice of early generations sons degeneratenYour holy books written in red ink on burning sandsnYour prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children to the hammered truth of your triggernA truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of usnSo that we too bear witness to the short lived fate of a civilization that worships a male godnYour weapons are phallic, all of themnThat dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectaclenHis shrunken pale face leaves little room for imaginationnWe have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper sourcenIt is a source of madnessnIt is a source of hunger, of powernA source of weaknessnA source of evilnWe have exited your coliseum and are encircling your box-office, demanding our families back, our cultures back, our rituals back, our gods back, so that we may return them to their proper sourcenThe source of life, the source of creation, our mothers womb, the great goddessnWe will cut through the barbwire hangers and chastity beltsnWe will climb in and incubate our spirits to the winternWe will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated historynWe will wait for the past to dien