Andrew Jackson and the Civil War

Were I to dwell a day


in the den of my enemies.


What would we say


of the corpses they fucked


and threw in the corner?


Their history torn to ribbons


and chained to the same toilets


from which they garner


their greatest thoughts and values.


How many burning crosses


would dawn their books?


How many hoods for the wash?


Who-


pray-tell


does the washing?


The husks of flesh cut into pounds


festering on a shelf somewhere.


Once colored and cultured,


now decaying,


both in smell and in sight.


All by design.


At an oaken feasting table.


I see them eat the termites


as appetizers.


So many holes, it looks like dry split bone.


Some monstrous creature


that never had blood to spill.


From the corner of their slack jawed mouths


I see the wine swish

and drip

and drench.


They talk about Andrew Jackson
 and the Civil War.


As I fight the urge


to light myself on fire.