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Pan-American
This hot and moving blood now knows there's more to hunger than the starving, something more to emptiness than the ache no anger fills and no steel stops. I've hungered only in the dark, and died just once if some deaths are called dying. Still the things men dreamed deadly to their flesh made me heir to anger long before I saw sunlight pierce the bone and long after the living limbed themselves with steel fighting to gain a dollar or a day, a marriage of metals, steel machined by steel until the angry stumbled blind into the grave mined by the spellbound commerce of diplomat and dictator. The land became more wound than womb and I begged of history no parallel but dust to dust. Here in these great republics the hungry see the harvest fall to the feast of dollars stuck under the land's gagged fat the same as when it was the famine of the fist, the gun. But though defeated and dead some heirs demand men share what they labor, food and blood, death and birth, dark clots at heart and crotch caught between the cage of the inmost fiber and the coal of the utmost genital. Therefore I drive midnight through all my wounds, hunger through all my words, on and on until the wish has gathered in the gut. My heart, my land, it is the courage to starve to death I work to give or to get.