We're an untrustworthy gas can

And a mask to match

In a gated slate tinderbox

Van Ness and International

With a perking garage attached

We cut out our own saints to venerate

We've got our molds and our forge

We've been digging for kindness

In digital space

With an occupation nearing our doors

Our blood is a stone

And a strap in the hand

Of a Philistine

Our blood empties into the sea

And even our debts are salvific

If you ask the man collecting the debts

We're laying out our final directives

Burials upside-down facing wеst

We don't even know that wе're sick

We carve up our rood and we genuflect

The dust collects

Amorphous in the sweat of our brow

The invaders have been keeping the skeletons

To furnish their temples

We would never be converted anyhow

Our blood is a rag

And a bottle away

From a molotov

And our gods

Are a plastic

Explosive attached

To the exterior walls