ORGANIZATION IS OUR WEAPON

An Old Poem That Still Echoes...

The wind wept

In West Virginia

As fifty-seven men

Sons, brothers, fathers

Rushed through air

To taste profit and life

Spilled up the ground

We must fashion an instrument

Both blunt and precise

It must shape the force

Of a thousand, thousand fists

Into a single blow

The night hardened

In El Barrio

As the blue steeled

.38 police special pressed

Its copper-jacketed insult

…