Hope is the weapon The blade 
strained the grease fat neck Loll, 
loll, Chopped heads, Loll. This is a 
bright-edged hope. This is a hope 
with incisors, one chewing noisy 
with mouth open, a hope to 
swallow them up. Hope it isn’t 
dead, yet, this one’s got a pulse, a 
volcano gestating, a comet and a 
fucking riot. Dangling off the 
freeway and it matters. Hope for 
when the fascists come out. Hope 
when the world isn’t. We aren’t 
waiting on someone. This is the 
last minute move. We are the 
clenched fist. The raw knuckle. 
This ain’t a shiny suit of armor, or a 
flapping cape. This is thirsty shit, 
sand swept and millions of arms 
and legs. We hope but we aren’t 
waiting around, we got a flutter in 
our ribs demanding some room to 
stretch out and a planet for the 
kids. Means join us. Means be on 
this side. At the risk of sounding 
ridiculous, MLK and Che say love 
and yeah, love. There’s love in this 
thing, nothing but love. Love 
means you do whatever is 
necessary to protect. 

inspiration for this piece: “Seeing the billionth notification in my Twitter feed for the upcoming We The People March”

Corey Hill is a human rights activist, journalist, fiction writer, parent, and occasional tree climber. You can find him on Twitter @NewsCHill .