Here in the land that Abraham was promised to receive we listen to you catechize
from your pulpit overseas. You mourn the proofs of our barbarity. Dry your eyes,
oh Pharisee. We both speak a settler's cant. We both read from the same old

played out scripts and hum familiar tunes, broadcast on fixed frequencies, stuck
in locking grooves. We both profess noble intent as we civilize human
impediments. So if your hands are clean then noblesse oblige that you wipe that

"who me?" look off your face and concede our designs separated by nothing more
than place and time. Different scenes, same crimes. Pray, let him who's without
sin cast the first statues of the former rogues turned folk heroes that your

forefathers hung. Don't lecture me about plundered soil while you loaf upon your
father's spoils. We want nothing more than what you already have: a comforting
set of exculpatory "facts" like, say, the myth of an empty land and a conquest

so complete we can pull these tanks from our streets and hand the loose ends
over to bureaucrats and become just like you - lounging carefree in your cafes,
absolved from sin and human grenades. Entre nous, how did your desert bloom?