Walk to Public Square, while you live, and sing the victims roughly shoved between lath and beam - the dead women - sealed in walls, scratching under the floor of Imperial Avenue. The Seymour attic decade, three women in chains a half mile from my home the raped child's rape child on the same playground as my son sit down on Public Square while you live, and sing the victims your fingers in the holes left by one hundred and thirty-seven police bullets your body policed upon the asphalt so hard it stops your twelve years of life split open by a police sidearm. stand up on Public Square while you live, and sing the victims of men of police men of institutions of men, whose words are worse than silence. stand up on Public Square and tear it down.