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