rage against the machine
memory of the dead
wealthy vampires with the cold hands of executioners execute executive decisions determined to destroy what 1 million women, children, and men 1910 died, drowning in the rage of battle. mothers, half naked infants clutching thier necks running frantically tripping over the bodies of their sons teeth gnashing swinging machete spitting blood and mud, and screaming: land, and liberty! were erased. buried and burned along with the memory of the dead along with the ejido. with the smooth stroke of a pen and with the ghost of Nixon present in their eyes they smiled. and pronounced the omnipitence of the free market the profits of profit extending the scurge of columbus and pizarro the freedom to buy things you can never afford the freedom for indians to buy corn that once flourished overgrown in their backyards the freedom to die of curable disease the freedom to watch their children's stomachs swell and burst the freedom to starve and die without land or liberty but Ramona, with eyes of obsidian peering through her blood and sweat drenched mask darding, unseen changing direction with the swiftness of a bird through the shanty's of the canyon with every coyote, every insect, every phylum of life urging her, propelling her forward. the leaves and branches of the forest part for miles, clearing her path the voices and screams of the dead beneathe her feet echo in the deepest chasm of her soul hurling her, toward the city history surging through her veins pulsing through her fingers hurling her, towards the city she caresses her trigger and the words of magome fulfil her being and with each shot she fires, she affirms her movement saying: enough! enough! no! I will see my own blood flow before you take my land...or my liberty.