12.1 
No, well not patiently serenade and await the coming of 
all that is ours for the taking. No come-hither cooing 
from our lips escapes; no soft, whispered wherefore-
art-thou poetry. Well accent our lives! This trials so 
desperate and dire. So hackneyed, held hardly together 
by our hoarse screams heard only between whats sewn in 
song: the stitching seems so severely immaterial, im 
sure. But this is ours. Produced for our pleasure, not 
yours. Not yours! 

12.2 
On these words of our evolving truth weve patterned our 
lives, building bolt by bolt, laying floorboards and 
walls with our sweat and our blood and our ten 
blistered hands to uproot our old plans, to throw off 
and leave. To leave, yes, we will leave this place for 
a life not contrived by those that came before us

12.3 
Our hour nears, just watch the way the hands 
circumscribe the face. Then we will fly, we will flee 
this thirteenth colony when thirteen bells ring. 

12.4 
This is our plea: to the blue-suspended cirrus stirred 
by arrowheads of sparrows flight, make room for me. To 
the tangles of the forests viral vacuoles knotted 
lives, make room for me. To the horizon forever afoot, 
the waning western light, make room for me. To the 
oceans open bellies, black and swelling, starving, 
rise! Make room for me!