Contextual criticism of our being
would be that we are idiots in our own right
standing in paralysis
like a quail in the grand canyon
looking at a gloomy sky
listening to sweeping wind
lying before our eardrums
now sickened and appalled by the icons
of the western sphere
all rot denominations and orders
juiced up on political revival
and government gunshots gunshots gunshots
while we are but men with hatchets in forests how foolish to think 
-“the world is not bought”
how ignorant to presume
-“all people are not shit”
instead we brake their broomsticks in half
then decorate our soil with their talmudic potions
and the reflected image of their black pope
indwelled in the children of our tribe trough the plague of their lies
attempting to enslave the human
I chew up their bullets and laugh 
I tell them “that’s all you have?”
then I die the Cuban death