if I am about to die, are they poor enough to die with me?

If the spirit is a pair of feet,
give your people the bare ones
if our hands make our living,
give them carpal tunnel, or stumps.
If dams make the desert wet,
break down their projects
if votes make the powerful
cause your people to be hated.
If its guns and swords that make us rich,
then melt their bullets and blades.
In a place with things to see
make them blind fools
and if tv makes us who we are
smash their screens and cause power outage.
In the kitchen with an unused stove
drop a dining table through the roof, like a meteor.

And, O Father on high who came low
to one like this suffering, stubborn fool,
I am dying, ex-piring, in a clean white hospital
too contagious for company
and my pain runs across the plains
like half-dead antelope
frantic in meaning nothing.
Build your people into this sad life
make them fired bricks
to build a wall to hold my pain
like an offering bowl
like a cup.